


Aeternum

by boredhswf



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23819461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredhswf/pseuds/boredhswf
Summary: He was never meant to end up here, to meet her, and to have his life changed forever.
Relationships: Pam Beesly/Jim Halpert
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	1. Wayfaring Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> In Aeternum: latin adverb- To eternity; forever.
> 
> Cross-posted at MTT.

_North Carolina, 1865_.

He was angry.  
  
Angry and hot. The cool mountain breezes he was promised were not nearly strong enough to ease the stifling humid heat that seemed to lay like a damp blanket over him. He flapped the edge of his Prussian-blue coat violently, thoughts of tossing the suppressing wool garment into the fiery pits of hell amused him. Propriety and U.S. Army regulations be damned. He squinted up towards the unyielding sun, hoping to find it lower in the sky, instead disappointed to find it no farther along than it was ten minutes prior. The terrible hard, red earth of the dirt trail seemed to stretch in front of him as endless and unrelenting as the North Carolina heat; winding and hopeless. A dead road through a dead land, such as it is. His horse stumbled and snorted, clearly as miserable as he was and he felt a camaraderie with the poor beast. The world seemed lost and dying here and he felt as unmoored as ever. The entire country had been living under the tumultuous storm clouds of the war only to reemerge and wander aimlessly amongst the destruction. The South groaned under her consequences, weary and furious, and he just wanted to go the hell home. Home to Philadelphia with her cobblestone streets and home to Katy with her soft smile and delicate hands.  
  
He knew why he was given this assignment, which made the indignity of it burn brighter. His father and General Stoneman were old enemies and when news came that Senator Halpert’s youngest son was being sent under his command at the end of the war, he was sure he could think of no better task than to send him on a meaningless escort mission into the desolate wilderness of Carolina backcountry. Stoneman had just returned from his post-war plundering of the area himself and no doubt enjoyed the look of dismay on the young colonel’s face when he told him to ensure the safe return of his wife’s nephew. The long ride from New Bern to Asheville was not an easy one and the farther west one rode the more lawless it became. The young man’s family lived among the pockets of Union sided families in the far mountains of North Carolina. The rebellious towns that dotted the landscape between them necessitated his presence, he reasoned. He found most southerners he encountered to be ambivalent to his Union uniform. They either looked on him as Satan, ignored him entirely or spit in his direction; all three were likely to happen at any moment.  
  
James Halpert had served the entirety of the war as a cavalry officer and, despite his father’s efforts to keep him from the front lines, had served and survived many battles. The experience had irreparably changed him and he was certain that upon his return he would be unrecognizable as if the scars of war would somehow be as visible as the patches of rank on his shoulder; his mere survival an expiation of his sins. He and his two brothers all went to West Point and even though James was well-learned and cultured, he never cared much for the pretentious Philadelphia society like they did; the gentleman he was and the expectations thrust upon him after graduation, more of a burden. The war came as a welcomed distraction even if it took him far from home and away from the girl we wanted so desperately to marry. Her family was elated when he had announced his intentions at Christmas dinner before he rode off to join General McClellan's troops. He assumed Katy would be in agreement. She was an agreeable woman and always seemed to want to please him. It all seemed far away from here, the war-torn land he now rode through and the man he was now after four long years of that war.  
  
“When do you think we will arrive, Colonel sir?” The young man was scrawny with wisps of sweaty blond hair sticking to his face. His somewhat effeminate features irritated rather than endeared James. If the boy was more brawny then perhaps his presence would not be needed and he would be halfway through Virginia by now.  
  
“Soon enough. I imagine our scout here can tell us specifically.”  
  
The scout rode ahead on a painted mare, both leftovers from the confederate Cherokee that had fought under Watie and surrendered at the end of the war. James had recruited him in Concord to help him navigate the unfamiliar mountain trails leading to Asheville. Desperate for pay, the man had tenuously agreed although he had barely spoken ten words the entire duration.  
  
“Four leagues.” The man spoke suddenly with a strong Native accent.  
  
“Four leagues,” James repeated to the boy riding behind him. Now it was twelve words.  
  
The sun was dancing on the treetops by the time they pulled their horses up to the boarding house near the main town square, weary and hungry. The building seemed to have survived the plundering done by Union troops in the middle of the night not five months prior. Based on the hate in the eyes of everyone he spoke to, the pain of those raids had not been forgotten. James acquired their accommodations and paid the Cherokee man what he owed him, of which he was quite sure to never to see again.  
  
He leaned down slightly to speak to the young woman at the front desk of the boarding house, his tall, muscular frame towering above her, “Can you tell me, ma’am, where I might find the Morgan family? I have been sent to deliver their son and, as I am sure, they are anxious to know of his safe arrival.” He flashed his best smile at her cold expression.  
  
The woman looked at him sternly, her deep brown eyes large on her small face. “They are living here in town. You best ask my husband to send word.” Her strong mountain accent was minimally helpful which was likely due to his clothes and not his charm. He nodded his thanks, “Then perhaps you can tell me where we might get a suitable meal?”  
  
She tilted her head back slightly, her eyes moving down his uniform, “You will be most comfortable at Madison's, across the street.”  
  
He was thankful to find Madisons to be a small piece of civility in a rather beat down, war-weary town. He downed his whiskey quickly and motioned for another. He had sent word, as instructed, to the Morgan family to alert them to the fact they were in town and needed to fetch their son. He was tired of this damn affair and wished to be rid of his young ward as soon as possible. In the meantime, he would enjoy his meal and drink.

He was halfway through his fourth whiskey when a wealthy family drew the attention of the entire room as they entered and were immediately taken to a large table near the window. It had to be the liquor swirling now in his blood or perhaps it was that he had not seen a proper lady in many months but he was drawn inexplicably to the fair, curly-haired woman having her chair pulled out for her by the Maître D'. She was not as strikingly beautiful as his Katy was but the way her brown-auburn hair twisted in curls at the base of her neck caused a warm feeling flow through him. It had to be the whiskey, he convinced himself.  
  
“Colonel Halpert?”  
  
“Father!” The young Morgan boy jumped up from the table and threw himself at the man, James assumed, was Mr. Morgan.  
  
The shorter but fit man grabbed his hand with exuberance, “I thank you for delivering my son safely. George wrote and said he was sending one of his best. I trust the journey went well?”  
  
“It was uneventful, Sir, which is as much as one can hope for these days.” James finally spoke, trying his best to not speak like a man who just downed four whiskeys.  
  
“Indeed it is,” he slapped James on the arm, his voice revealing a slight southern lilt, “You must come for dinner tomorrow evening. I insist.”  
  
“No Sir, I will be leaving for Philadelphia as soon as possible.”  
  
“Nonsense. That is a long journey from New Bern, you must stay for at least a day. To rest your horse if nothing else. Where are you staying? I will send my carriage to fetch you tomorrow.”  
  
Seeing how arguing was fruitless, and rude at this point, he relented, “I am staying across the way, at The Chateau.”  
  
“Ah very well, I will see you then.”  
  
James finished the last of his whiskey and ordered another.  
  
  
As promised, the carriage arrived promptly at seven. He was not particularly in the mood to be genial and cordial but his upbringing pulled at his sense of obligation like a tether he was never quite free from. He would much rather be dull and entertained by a bottle of whiskey, instead, he found himself in a grand receiving room, smiling at poor jokes with a glass of warm brandy in his hand. The Morgans were upper class, old railroad money, and were quite obviously Union sympathizers in a place where that was a risky proposition. James found the conversations comfortable and when he discovered Mr. Morgan was well-read in Whitman and Flaubert, he found he had several things in common with the businessman.  
  
“Mr. William Beesley.” The servant announced suddenly and everyone turned to see the same family he had seen in Madisons, now being welcomed into the receiving room.  
  
“Colonel, allow me to introduce Mr. Beesly, his lovely wife Helene, and their two daughters, Miss Pamela Beesly and Miss Penny Beesly. This is Colonel James Halpert. He assisted us by returning Emerson home safely from New Bern.”  
  
James nodded his head politely at each one.  
  
“William, Colonel served under General Stoneman. I believe you know him, do you not?”  
  
“Ah, yes many years ago. A fine gentleman.”  
  
“It is a connection that caused Mr. Beesly’s home to be spared after the Battle of Asheville, no doubt.” Mr. Morgan looked at James with a conspiratorial tone. Clearly, this family’s history with prominent Northerners had been fruitful in the aftermath of the war.  
  
He continued to discuss war politics with Mr. Beesly and Mr. Morgan as the ladies excused themselves. Despite his efforts, his eyes continued to drift back to Miss Beesly across the room. He scolded himself internally at his weakness. The war had made him as desperate as a pubescent boy at a debutant ball apparently and he was embarrassingly distracted. Her evening dress transfixed him, its striped pattern flared in a ‘V’ shape and made her waist look impossibly small. The low, square laced bodice, fashionable for the day, revealed the sight of her creamy décolletage and it was his undoing. He turned his back to her, pretending to note a painting framed above their heads, complimenting their host on its striking composition.  
  
Mercifully, he was placed on the same side of the table as her in the Morgan’s large dining hall, forcing him to converse instead with Mrs. Beesly and Mr. Morgan across from him.  
  
“Colonel Halpert, Mrs. Morgan tells me you are to marry upon your return to Philadelphia.” Mrs. Beesly’s intrusive question brought all the eyes of the table to him and he shifted nervously under their scrutiny, clearing his throat before speaking.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am. Her family, the Moores, are quite prominent in Philadelphia. They have been planning furiously, I am sure.” Nods and positive murmurs came from around the table.  
  
“I trust they will be pleased to see you home and in good health.”  
  
“Yes Ma’am, I am certain they will.”  
  
Mrs. Beesly, seemingly bored, moved on to question Mrs. Morgan and her choice of centerpiece, much to his relief.  
  
After dinner, he excused himself to the veranda, the collar on his Dress Blues becoming unbearably tight. The stars were bright here, much brighter than in Philadelphia and he wondered sometimes when the southerners said this was “God’s Country” if that is what they meant. He inhaled deeply feeling the drastic change in temperature drifting up from the riverbed below the house; the whippoorwills making their nightly calls to the heavens.  
  
“Are you trying to escape my mother’s poor humor or Mr. Morgan’s political rants?”  
  
Her voice startled him but it was warm and smooth like whiskey and sent a jolt of excitement through him that he cared not examine too closely.  
  
“Neither. Just enjoying the cool air.”  
  
“You are not very good at deception, Colonel Halpert.”  
  
“No Colonel. The war is over.”  
  
“Thank the heavens above. I’ve never understood why a country would be so eager to send its boys and young men off to slaughter.”  
  
He turned to her, mildly surprised, “That is quite a strong opinion for a lady.”  
  
“Well, I do have my own mind Mr. Halpert.” Her smile was pleasant and stirred something inside him akin to falling off a horse. He shifted nervously, waiting to hit the ground.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
She sighed and smoothed out the top of her skirt needlessly, “My fiancé thinks I should not have opinions and if they happen to enter my treacherous mind by accident, to keep my eyes down and my mouth shut.”  
  
James shook his head and swirled the brown liquid in his glass.  
  
“Most gentlemen think a woman is not capable or entitled to opinions beyond her husband and children,” he glanced at her, trying to read her face in the dim light, “I happen to not agree with that sentiment.”  
  
“Does your fiancé speak her mind often?” Guilt washed over him like cold water at the mention of her. He hadn’t thought of Katy the entire evening. His thoughts had been wrapped up in the woman in the striped skirt currently looking up at the stars. Her lovely neck a soft ivory color in the moonlight. He cleared his throat in a lame attempt to refocus.  
  
She looked back at him now, realizing he hadn’t answered, “I am sorry, that was inappropriate. Forgive my intrusion.”  
  
“No, no it is quite fine Miss Beesly. She does not opine very often, no.”  
  
He desperately wanted to talk about anything other than Katy.  
  
“I plan on leaving tomorrow for Philadelphia if the weather holds.”  
  
“Oh,” she murmured softly. She suddenly looked disappointed and he tried not to read too much into that. He felt like what it must feel to lose one’s mind, every glance at her lips made him feel dizzy; every sigh she made, lightheaded. He gripped the railing with his left hand harshly in an attempt to stay grounded.  
  
“Have you ever been there, Miss Beesly? Philadelphia?”  
  
“No, I have never been further north than Richmond. My father has and I am sure he would love to regale his time there with you before you leave.”  
  
“Ah, you must visit some time. It is particularly lovely in the fall.”  
  
“I am sure it is. I doubt I will ever see it though.”  
  
He dared to look her in the eyes again, the sadness in her voice bothering him far too much.  
  
“They have trains, Miss Beesly. Trains that will take you straight to Philadelphia.”  
  
A smile pulled at her lips, “Did you discover that on your own Mr. Halpert, or was that information given to you?”  
  
He realized quickly that he was being teased and a chuckle came unbidden from his chest. He was accustomed to the obedient woman that never showed a sense of humor and certainly not with the opposite sex, lest they be deemed a harlot and decidedly not marriageable.  
  
He squinted at her mirthfully, “You are not very biddable, Miss Beesly. Has anyone ever told you that?”  
  
“I would much rather be memorable than biddable, Mr. Halpert.” She blinked slowly, her eyes held an unspoken challenge and he felt his grip slipping.  
  
Before he could stop his mouth from betraying his thoughts, “You are memorable, Miss Beesly. Very much.”  
  
She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with something he could not place; something he did not dare contemplate. His eyes drifted lower of their own volition, first to her lips, slightly parted, then lower to the tops of her breasts heaving in her bodice. Her corset must make it difficult to breathe, he thought briefly, or perhaps the planet was suddenly bereft of air because he too found it suddenly difficult to take a breath. He exhaled shakily, his thoughts drifting to what she must look like in her corset and he blinked, mentally reprimanding himself.  
  
It suddenly felt like they were closer. He wasn’t sure if the movement was him or her or a bit of both but he was thankful. Now her perfume, and something that was distractingly female, enveloped him and he, brave man that he was, felt as though he had lost all reason; all he could think of was _more._ Warmth trickled down his spine and pooled in his stomach and he knew with certainty that he was going to hell.  
  
“William!”  
  
Her mother’s shriek shot them apart like cannon fire. He stood there, shell shocked, for a moment only to be brought back to the present by the swishing of her skirts as she ran inside.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
William Beesly had died of a sudden arrest of his heart or ‘attack’ as the town physician had called it. The town, along with the family, was in shock, and even for a place so familiar with death and destruction, it seemed to be significant. He had been a prominent man, owning several businesses as well as the rifle factory, one of the first factories in the area.  
  
He stood in her parlor watching her as inconspicuously as he could get away with. The house was filled with mourners, coming to pay their respects. The amount of black silk and crepe in one place must have left the dressmakers scrambling to find more. Even the less fortunate of the town’s citizens wore their special black attire. Mourning dresses, he imagined, had been worn with saddening frequency in recent years. The fact that there were no men between the ages of fifteen and thirty present, besides himself, was not lost on him.  
  
Her modest black dress was the one that interested him the most. It made her brown-red curls stand out even more and the pale, ivory skin of her neck seemed to be painfully distracting. For a woman who had just lost her father, she was holding up quite well.  
  
Which worried him.  
  
She spotted him and he dumbly looked away as if he could fool her. He turned back in her direction and she was there in front of him, like a petite, haunting, curly-haired ghost he could not escape.  
  
“I thought you were leaving, Mr. Halpert. You stated, rather adamantly, that fact.”  
  
He shifted nervously on his feet. _Damn this woman, and her effect on him_ , he mentally cursed.  
  
“I thought I might stay and help your family with any arrangements before I go. What with your lack of a brother or male relative to assist…” he finished lamely, struggling to find an excuse.  
  
“Do you think my sister and I not capable, sir? That we would undoubtedly need a man to help us navigate the perilous waters of funeral arrangements?” Her tone was serious and offended but there was a gleam in her eye that gave her away.  
  
He huffed slightly, looking at his boots momentarily to regain composure, “No, not at all. I do not mean to offend, I just wanted to —“  
  
“Mr. Anderson.”  
  
“Miss Beesly. Pamela,” his voice lowered slightly as he uttered her informal name, “I am devastated to hear about your father. He was a great man.” The tall, bulky man reached for her hand and kissed it. James could not help but notice she pulled it from his grasp quickly, either from embarrassment or something else, he could not quite be sure.  
  
“Mr. Anderson, this is Colonel Halpert. He assisted the Morgan family with young Emerson and he was at dinner the evening…” She stopped, bringing her black lacy kerchief to her face instead and he felt the overwhelming need to help her.  
  
James turned to him, diverting attention from her distress momentarily and offering his hand, “It is a pleasure, Mr. Anderson.”  
  
“The pleasure is mine, sir,” his meaty hand gripped his own harshly. The recent years had been good to him, his well-fed form filling out his suit coat completely; a sharp contrast to most southerners in the days following the war. “So, you are a Yankee. What brings you to Asheville?” His suspicious eyes belied his cordial tone.  
  
James wondered if he had even listened to Miss Beesly at all, seeing how she had already explained his presence. “I was on a special assignment for General Stoneman.”  
  
“Well, you are coming out with us tonight then, and entertain us with your war stories over cigars and brandy.” He did not seem to be the least affected by Mr. Beesly’s passing and James was appalled by his lack of decorum.  
  
“No, I really should not, I have to—“  
  
“What? Are you going to stay with the women?” Anderson meant it as an insult but James thought spending the evening with Miss Beesly sounded endlessly more pleasant than spending it with this brute.  
  
“Very well then.” He answered emotionlessly and Anderson was satisfied, leaving them both and moving towards the door having completed what he came to do; being seen by Miss Beesly.  
  
He looked back to her finding her eyes already meeting his.  
  
“That is my fiancé,” she said almost apologetically.  
  
“I gathered. By the name, of course.”  
  
“His father and mine were old friends. They started the rifle business here in town together. They have planned our marriage since childhood.” She stated all this with a sense of detachment, similar to how one reads a recipe or directions.  
  
“I see. He did not fight in the war?”  
  
“No, he was Home Guard. His father deemed him too valuable to spare to the war effort.”  
  
James’ eyebrows rose at this. The Confederate Home Guard had a terrible reputation in the Union Army and mostly consisted of invalids and cowards in his opinion. Lesser men, too weak to fight, stayed home and took advantage of the absence of authority left by the men who went off to war. Maybe he could come down with a sudden illness this evening instead.  
  
  
  
  
“Halpert!” Anderson’s voice bellowed as he reined his horse roughly to the railing, dismounting clumsily. _How could this idiot be drunk so early in the evening?_ His opinion of the man was declining by the minute and it had nothing to with his betrothal to Miss Beesly. Nothing at all, he convinced himself.  
  
“Anderson. Would you like help securing your horse?”  
  
He draped the reins over the post. “No, the incorrigible bastard. Maybe he will run away and I can see fit to purchase a new one.” James looped the reins in a knot anyway.  
  
“Let us go find some entertainment.”  
  
He was beginning to regret his decision to not feign illness already.  
  
The evening found them at Miss Mary Halls, a brothel on the edge of town. James was no prude and had been in a house of ill repute before but he had no interest in Anderson’s particular taste tonight, instead, he turned his attention to the intense poker games and his endless glass of whiskey. Society men in Philadelphia frequented such places and he had accompanied his father there many times. Business and political relationships were often forged in the parlors of high-end Madams and it was no secret that they all returned home to their wives at the end of the night. He had never seen much value in paying for a woman’s attention, and while he certainly enjoyed the view, it wasn’t something that particularly appealed to him. Roy Anderson, on the other hand, appeared to be a very good customer of Miss Halls. The more intoxicated Anderson became, the more he boasted about being the soon-to-be owner of the Enfield Rifle Company.  
  
“Now that her father is gone" he stumbled slightly over his words, "Once I marry her, it will all be mine.” He leaned over to James at the poker table, a scantily clad woman perched on his lap, her breasts all but threatening to spill out of her red satin corset, “Pamela is not much to look at but she is amicable. I suppose it will be worth it to marry her for her father’s company. She will give me some sons, too.”  
  
He looked at him in disgust. Anger simmered in his veins at Anderson’s blatant insults. She was disarmingly beautiful and even though he had only just met Miss Beesly, he certainly knew she was not amicable. He pushed aside why it bothered him so much for dissection later and took a long drink of his whiskey while he studied his cards. What he was sure of, however, is that he was beginning to grow weary of Anderson's brash behavior and loose tongue.  
  
“It is your turn, Mr. Anderson.”  
  
“Ah, yes.” He separated himself from the woman and drew a card, “I have to tell you, Mr. Halpert, I have had a sampling of her…” he gestured vulgarly at his chest and James shook his head slightly in annoyance, “and they are lovely, indeed. I bet you can’t wait to get home to your fiancée after being gone for so long. Let me buy you a girl tonight.”  
  
“No, thank you. I will be leaving soon. I have an early morning.”  
  
“Ah come on, what is wrong with you? Did you leave your balls at Sharpsburg or did the war take them all together?” Everyone at the poker table chuckled and he turned coldly to Anderson.  
  
“It is assumed one has balls if they go to war, Mr. Anderson, and that those left behind… do _not_.” There was a soft whistle from across the table at the thinly veiled insult.  
  
He met his stare for a brief moment before Anderson broke it, lifting his voice, “Well, I know the ladies here do not doubt the presence of mine! Another round!” Claps and laughs came from around the table and all attention was refocused on the game.  
  
  
He was restless. The whiskey he had had at Miss Halls had done nothing to temper his mood and Roy Anderson had aggravated him beyond measure. The ignorant brute was nothing if not a perfect example of why he should leave the South at the first light of dawn and never look back. He was going to be a terrible husband to Miss Beesly, only marrying her for her money. A thought that troubled him more than he was willing to admit. She was an intelligent woman and must know his intentions. If she was _his_ wife, she would not have to worry about her father’s money or finding him at Miss Halls every evening. _Why did he just think that?_ He tossed again. His bed at The Chateau was decent enough, but when he closed his eyes, he saw her. She did not strike him as a woman who shared much of herself to anyone, but she felt oddly familiar to him. A distressing mix of satisfying comfort and stimulating heat.  
  
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself and the ceiling.  
  
 _She is betrothed._ His mind kept repeating but his own thoughts did not seem to listen.  
  
 _She is betrothed._  
  
He tried a different tactic.  
  
 _I have a fiancée._  
  
 _I have a fiancée._  
  
She was beautiful and lovely and she was waiting for him. Katy was a classic, stunning beauty that would make him a happy man, provide him with a satisfying marriage. He should be thinking about her. He closed his eyes, convinced he had conquered the rebellious thoughts in his mind, but instead saw her green eyes, her soft curls, and the way she smiled when he told her she was not biddable. Something most ladies would take offense to, but instead, she found it humorous, saw it as a challenge.  
  
God, he was in trouble.  
  
At some point, he must have fallen asleep because he was awoken suddenly by screams and shouts out his bedroom window. He rubbed his face confused as the darkness in the room was broken by orange firelight from outside. Men were running by with buckets and someone started ringing the bell in the center of the square. He looked in the direction people were running from his point of view on the second floor and when he did, his blood ran cold.  
  
The Beesly home was engulfed in flames.


	2. Like a Songbird That Has Fallen

“Have you seen the ladies of the house?”  
  
A large crowd had formed in the street and a dozen men had begun hauling buckets of water, tossing it on the blaze. A pointless and ineffective treatment as the flames reached into the black ink of the sky with terrifying reach. Mostly wood and stone, the house had gone up like a tinderbox in a matter of minutes. The town watched nervously as a fire of this size could easily consume the entire street.  
  
“Has anyone seen the ladies of the house?” He shouted again over the roar of the inferno. He scanned the throng of people desperately for curly auburn hair but only found bewildered and aghast faces staring back at him. They all looked at the strange, half-dressed Union soldier like he had lost his mind.  
  
He uttered a curse and pushed past the crowd. He found the servant's entrance at the side to be accessible and slammed it open with the full weight of his body. The wooden door gave way as black smoke billowed out from it in sickening dark plumes. He called for her over the barrage of violent sounds: splitting wood, crashing glass, and the din of the fire sucking the air from the room. His lungs struggled, coughing harshly, gasping enough to call out again, when he heard her.  
  
“Here! Help my mother.”  
  
The three of them were at the foot of the stairs in their bedclothes and dressing robes; Pamela and Penny trying to lift their mother off the bottom step. James quickly lifted her, calling after them to follow him out, the hissing sound of scorched clothing chasing them. They all collapsed choking and gasping under the oak tree that covered the entirety of the side yard, the shouting voices carrying around the house from the men fighting the fire at the front.  
  
“See, Miss Beesly, I knew there was a reason I must stay,” he managed to get out between heaving breaths.  
  
She brushed back her loose curls from her face and he fell exhaustedly back into the cool grass.  
  
  
In the stillness before sunrise, smoke rose quietly from the blackened landscape where the beautiful home once stood. The stone chimneys were all that remained, their clay red stubbornly contrasting the ash-colored light of dawn. With the building now gone, the view of the mountains was revealed, rising from the horizon in shades of sapphire and navy.  
  
James stood in solemn, silent watch as the Beesly women picked through the charred remains of their home. He followed her with sad eyes, all sense of propriety gone, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, the ends tattered and singed; tears streaking her dirty cheeks. Her unbound hair appearing far too large for her small body as the endless curls reached down her back and they seemed softer than anything he had ever seen. She looked weary and numb and he wanted desperately to fix her brokenness, whatever the cost; wipe away her tears and build her an even larger house, as ridiculous as that was.  
  
Of course, he did none of those things.  
  
Instead, he just kept watch over them. A faithful guard over their mourning. His grey shirt covered in streaks of soot, tucked loosely into his pants, his suspenders still hanging down at his sides; he knew he looked disgraceful. He ran his hand through brown hair before realizing his hands were black as the charred logs at his feet and cursed his condition.  
  
Several people came and went. Ladies from the church brought them old coats and shoes. Some stopped and gaped and he gave them harsh, uncomfortable glares until they left. The doctor came to check on Mrs. Beesly and he took the opportunity to return to the Chateau and arrange for rooms, hot baths, and food when they were ready for it. When he returned, Pamela had a small pile gathered of things she had recovered and he resumed his post near it.  
  
“A lifetime collected and destroyed. We are impoverished.” Mrs. Beesly’s weak, trembling words broke his thoughts.  
  
“No, mother. We will think of something.” Her voice brought his eyes to her and she met them sadly. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, every cell in his body pushed him towards action but to do what, he did not know.  
  
She moved towards him for the first time since they had collapsed in the grass near the oak tree and his heart jumped slightly. “Mr. Halpert, you have been more than kind to help us but you do not have to stay.”  
  
“I just wanted to make sure there was nothing more I could do to assist you.” Their eyes lingered for a moment, a thousand words passing between them in the stillness of the early morning air.  
  
“You are under no obligation to, and yet you are here,” she shifted, pausing to pull at the tie of the coat that she wore that was several sizes too large. She looked back up him with purpose. A challenge in her eyes that echoed the one she gave him on the veranda the night her father died.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Her question startled him and he did not have an answer. Why, indeed? His assignment ended two days ago and somehow he still had not pointed his horse north.  
  
“I do not quite know, Miss Beesly, I only know that you needed me.” His answer was dangerously honest, walking precariously on the line of inappropriate. She stared at him, a curious expression crossing her face before a faint blush colored her cheeks and she looked down. She rocked slightly, the weight of the night and morning finally coming down on her small frame. He reached for her without thought putting his arms under hers to keep her from falling. He briefly felt her soft body, not contained in the usual stays and silk, as it pressed against the back of his hands under her elbows. He cleared his throat desperate to recompose.  
  
“Miss Beesly, please, I have a room for you. You should go get some rest and a meal.” When she looked up at him shocked, he clarified quickly, “I made arrangements at The Chateau for you and your mother and sister. Rooms, warm water, and meals are at your disposal when you are ready.”  
  
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, a fruitless attempt to control the errant curls from blowing in her face from the mountain breeze. “I have to admit, I am rather nonplussed at your generosity, Mr. Halpert,” he shook his head and looked down embarrassed but she reached out and placed her hand on his forearm, and his eyes immediately met hers, “But I am tremendously thankful.”  
  
Her hand was gone as quickly as it had landed there but his skin was branded where she had touched. He could feel it, radiating warmth even after it was long gone.  
  
“I will gather my things and try to collect my mother.”  
  
“Leave your things, I will send someone for them.” He wasn’t quite sure who he would find, admittedly he was accustomed to having soldiers or servants to call upon for such tasks. Here he had neither but he would make sure her belongings reached the hotel for her if he had to carry them himself.  
  
The thundering hooves of Anderson’s gelding came barreling up the quiet street, their intrusion as unwelcome as the man who sat astride the poor animal. When he reached them, he slid off quickly, before the horse had even stopped, and stepped over to her without any greeting.  
  
“Miss Beesly, I heard and came straight over. Are you all alright? Your grand house is gone. I can’t imagine your loss.” He surveyed the damage quickly.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. We were very fortunate that Mr. Halpert was here so quickly to help us out. I do not think we would have made it without him.”  
  
James felt uncomfortable under the praise but Anderson turned to him and nodded his thanks.  
  
“It was nothing more than any able-bodied bystander would do.” Curiously, he had passed a dozen able-bodied bystanders on the way to the servant’s entrance last night but he felt that was an unimportant detail.  
  
Anderson put his hand under her elbow, “Come, let us get you cleaned up.”  
  
Pamela pulled from his grip delicately, “Mr. Halpert has made arrangements for us at The Chateau.”  
  
He stood dumbstruck for a moment then looked at James, a new understanding sweeping over his features. He was once a benign presence, entertaining at best, but now he saw him differently; a threat encroaching on his territory. “Absolutely not. You will stay at my family’s home until we can find something suitable.”  
  
“I really would prefer to stay close to town, Mr. Anderson.”  
  
He grabbed her arm more firmly now, pulling her slightly in the direction of his horse. She flinched at the gesture and tried to pull from his grasp but he held tight. “It is not up for discussion.”  
  
Unsolicited anger flared in James, “The lady said she prefers to stay in town.” He gritted his teeth to keep himself from saying more.  
  
“This is none of your concern Colonel Halpert. You should perhaps see about making your way home to…Philadelphia is it? Your services are no longer needed here.” His dismissive tone added flames to the already blazing fire burning in his chest.  
  
“It is my concern when you are roughly handling a lady, sir. She clearly does not want to go where you want.”  
  
“She is my fiancée. I can do with her as I please.” She looked up at his towering form with insult, jerking her arm once more but if he noticed, he ignored it.  
  
His expression hardened, “She is not yet your wife and until she is, she is allowed to do as she pleases.”  
  
“Stop. Please, both of you.” She jerked once again, finally breaking free from Anderson’s grasp and stepping away. “You compliment me with your persistence in concerns to my well being, Mr. Anderson, but my mother and sister and I will being staying at The Chateau for the time being.”  
  
He stared at her with disbelief that then turned to fury to such a degree that James’s body tensed in preparation to react but instead, Anderson wordlessly mounted his horse. “You are a senseless woman. You will come calling when you realize your foolishness.” He turned his horse and with a hard kick, returned the direction from which he came.  
  
_____________  
  
  
James still detected the burning on his flesh despite his scrubbing. The hair and skin on his arms had singed and he hadn’t noticed until he was back at the hotel cleaning off the previous evening from his body. Burning flesh was a smell one never forgot and instantly brought him back to the field hospital at Antietam. He closed his eyes and he was there again, the sounds of buzzing flies, the stench of rotting meat, and the sickening feel in his stomach. The tents and reimagined rooms in commandeered houses that hospitals occupied were cesspools of agony. Surviving the battlefield was only the beginning as most died in the days that followed, either by infection from a hasty amputation or surgery or from the countless diseases that swept through the crowded camps and unsanitary hospital beds.  
  
He had taken a bayonet to the leg, a giant gash that stretched from his hip to almost his knee, and the subsequent infection had nearly killed him. He mercifully did not remember the injury itself, only waking up in the converted parlor of some unfortunate Maryland aristocrat. He had been placed in a semi-private room for officers apart from the main floor and there were three beds in the small space in addition to his own.  
  
He spent countless days in fevered dreams, in and out of consciousness as the infection waged its war on his body. He waited to die but death never came for him. Days and then weeks passed and he remained as the litters he shared a room with were removed as their occupants died and more men were moved in to die after them.  
  
There was once a morose man next to him from Rhode Island who had lost his arm. He talked of the sea and how it called him and he needed to get back to it. James suspected he finally did because when he woke up one morning he was gone. He envied him, despite his deeply held sense of duty to country, and he often dreamed as he stared at the stained wallpaper of just getting up and walking away from this damn war that had taken too much of him already.  
  
He took a small sip of the whiskey and felt the warm, smooth burn reach his stomach. The blooms on the Dogwood trees were long gone but the fragrant jasmine that twined itself up the wrought iron of the porch made the air pleasant and he inhaled deeply, reminding himself that he was indeed in North Carolina and not Maryland. Time had healed his body, scars had faded but damage stained his soul in a way he would never escape.  
  
He had sought refuge from the stifling heat of his room on the porch that wrapped around the hotel. He had not seen Miss Beesly in hours but inquired at the front desk that she had received anything she had requested and that it be put on his bill.  
  
His thoughts of her frightened him in their intensity. They were like quicksand, pulling him deeper the more he resisted.  
  
“I always seem to find you enjoying your drink on a porch, Mr. Halpert.” He turned at the quiet sound of her voice, her smile greeting him. Her hair was only half up, far more casual than he had seen previously and it seemed to glow in the orange evening sun.  
  
He stood from where he was leaning against the railing, “Well, it is the best place to enjoy a drink in my opinion.” He was rewarded with another smile. “How are your rooms? I trust everything was comfortable.”  
  
“Yes, they are wonderful, thank you. Mother is still resting. I still feel a bit in disbelief that we have lost everything. I am unsure of what we are going to do. Besides my father’s business holdings, there is nothing. I sent a telegraph to his lawyer in Richmond.”  
  
“What do you mean there is nothing?”  
  
“There is no money. My father apparently did not manage things well in recent years. My mother claims she had no idea, or perhaps it was because she didn’t want to. She tends to avoid things that displease her.” She answered casually as if their lives hadn’t been turned completely on end in the better part of a week. The news was hardly a surprise. Many formerly wealthy southern families, most far beyond the plantation fields, had suddenly found themselves in financial ruin as businesses failed under the strain of the war.  
  
“My mother has family in St. Louis, so she and my sister are going to stay with them.”  
  
A panicked feeling washed over him. “What about you?”  
  
“I suppose I can no longer delay my wedding to Mr. Anderson.” She looked at him, her eyes seeming to search for something and he took a drink of whiskey as if to strengthen his resistance to her pull.  
  
He leaned back down on the railing with a frustrated sigh and she glanced at him curiously, studying his profile in the late afternoon light.  
  
“I have a confession. I do not particularly like Mr. Anderson,” looking shyly down as she spoke.  
  
He laughed despite himself.  
  
“I am glad to hear that. I do not particularly like Mr. Anderson either.”  
  
“You forget yourself, sir!” Her smile and laugh betrayed the seriousness of her words. The sound of it warmed him thoroughly. His mind drifted into dangerous territory as he wondered what other secrets she held and if he could make her laugh like that again.  
  
Her face fell again.“I do not know what he will do when he learns of father’s financial missteps. I know the rifle company is of utmost importance to him and I am simply a means to an end,” she sighed and pulled slightly at a ribbon on her dress, “I have never expected more than passing politeness, even if he is loud and uncouth.”  
  
He looked over at her with sorrow that she had resigned herself to such a melancholy existence. She truly had no idea how lovely she was and it occurred to him that perhaps no one had ever told her.  
  
“I am not daft. I am well aware that Mr. Anderson’s interest in me has very little to do with me and more to do with my family. It is no secret, he thinks my sister more handsome than me but she will not inherit my father’s company, I will. Not that I have any choice in the matter, of course.”  
  
She was being surprisingly frank and it disquieted him, much the same way looking in on a private moment would, and yet he could not pull himself away. She was correct, once they were married she would legally belong to him. Anything she inherited from her father was his. She couldn’t own anything, sign contracts and any money she managed to make belonged to him. If she wanted a divorce, he had to consent and if she fled, he could have her brought back to him against her will. She would cease to exist beyond his last name and his bed.  
  
“You do not have to marry him, Miss Beesly.” It was a truth he felt she needed to hear.  
  
She stared at him for several seconds, long enough to be discomforting, and then, raised her hand to the front of her bodice in frustration, “What choice do I have? In case you haven’t noticed Mr. Halpert, western North Carolina is not teeming with eligible men. I’m am nearly twenty and four. I’m practically an old maid.”  
  
He softly chuckled at her, “You are most definitely not an old maid, Ma’am.” She huffed and turned, pretending to notice something down the street to hide her small smile. The dichotomy that was this woman was a challenge that he was somehow drawn to with a powerful force he could not explain.  
  
Irrational. Illogical. Insane. These were all words that flashed before him but he felt compelled beyond all reason to utter the words that felt both foolish and right all in the same measure.  
  
“You could marry me?”  
  



	3. Any Other Name

James had once stood fearless as a confederate soldier came charging at him on horseback. Twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh and southern rage coming toward him with frightening speed. He had stood steadfast as the Rebel’s screams seemed to echo infinitely against the rolling hills of Virginia. He had stared down the barrel of a pistol and the face of death on more than one occasion. Nothing, however, had been more terrifying than the five foot six woman who stood before him in second-hand blue silk.  
  
“I…can’t.” Her face was flush and her mouth was agape as she formed words, “Mr. Anderson…my mother.” She shook her head looked away slightly from his gaze with an exasperated wave of her hand.  
  
“I know this is...sudden. It is not my place, most certainly, but I must tell you, you cannot marry Anderson. I would not even loan my horse to that man. You cannot stay here in Asheville alone. I have to return to Philadelphia soon. My father is expecting me to take over his business there now that the fighting is over. If you go to St. Louis with your mother and sister...I will likely never see you again.”  
  
The truth had a way of tumbling out of him in her presence despite his heroic efforts to keep it reined in.  
  
She tilted her head and seemed to begin to say something but stopped. He set down his drink on the ledge and reached for her hands. She stiffened at the contact briefly before letting her fingers delicately fold around his. “I am under no illusion that this is not forward, insane even, and I am a northerner for God’s sake but…” he dared to look down at her hands in his, small and pale in his much larger ones, so impossibly soft that it made his knees give way slightly. His voice dropped vulnerably, “I would take care of you and be faithful. I have a very fine house in Philadelphia. You would never want for anything.”  
  
He waited for her to laugh at him. Laugh at his foolishness heartily and walk away. She did not laugh. Instead, her forefinger stroked softly against the edge of his palm in contemplation and something else.  
  
“Your fiancée? What of her?”  
  
Katy. She did not deserve this, surely, but somehow that was not enough to stop him from continuing over the precipice he now stood on. If he was honest with himself, he had not been fair at all to her. When he left Philadelphia four years ago, he was barely a man. He spent his days working for his father and his evenings with his friends, frequenting saloons and parlors for cards and liquor. He started out writing her often, but the letters soon got further apart and by his second year away, he hardly wrote her at all, save Christmastime and her birthday. There would be a mighty storm to navigate once he returned but beyond the spoken promise four years ago, nothing more had been given. He wouldn’t be the first man to come back from war with a changed mind, as unfair as it was. Many came back with mistresses and bastard children they refused to leave behind and the wives pretended not to notice.  
  
“That would certainly have to be rectified, yes. I know this is unorthodox. You hardly know me.” He shifted his weight as his nerve faltered.  
  
She looked down at their joined hands and sighed softly, “I see who you are, Mr. Halpert, and there is a promise of getting to know the details. We are practically strangers, we’ve hardly had a dozen conversations between the two of us but I _feel_ as if I know you. Maybe not how you take your tea or your favorite books but...you.” It was her turn to shift nervously, “You hardly know _me._ I could be a terrible person.” She looked back up at him, her green eyes slightly glassy and dark.  
  
His eyes and thoughts lingered on her perfect lips as she pulled her lower one in and her tongue slipped out delicately to wet it. She was so close, he could feel her breath fanning across his chin. His words came forth more as a murmur than spoken clearly, “You are not a terrible person. And to be honest, Miss Beesly, I do not think I would care.”  
  
“Do you love her?” He was yanked abruptly from his decidedly ungentlemanlike thoughts. It was a question he could see she needed to be answered and there was no confusion as to who the ‘her’ was.  
  
“Marriage is rarely about love, Miss Beesly.” Marriage at their social standing was more a financial and power transaction than about romance. His brothers both chose their wives based on mutual benefit. Thomas, far too deep in his liquor one Christmas, had confessed that he could barely tolerate his wife. Marital relationships were for producing children. If a man wanted passion or even a somewhat enthusiastic bedmate, he sought out a mistress or a prostitute.  
  
He could tell that response did not satisfy her. She pulled back slightly from him and he scrambled to find the words to keep her from retreating fully.  
  
He thought he knew what meant to love a woman, but love for a man that could have very different meanings. He loved his mother and his sister. Deciding to marry Katy had been a practical choice. Logical and controlled. Safe. When he was with Miss Beesly he felt as if he had lost his footing and went plummeting over a cliff. It was impossible to compare the two. He wasn’t sure that was love but he had never felt it before. He knew what she was asking but he couldn’t give it to her yet.  
  
“I do not know,” he decided to answer honestly. “She is important to me. I was prepared to spend my life dedicated to her. It is the foundation for marriage but I am not sure that is love.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“I choose you.”  
  
She trembled slightly, he felt it in her hands and heard it in her fluttering breath.  
  
She pulled away and he missed her instantly. “I must go. I must see to my mother and Penny.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I… I don’t know what…” Her words faded as she turned towards the hallway door. Her skirts spinning slightly with her movement.  
  
She took a few steps and paused and turned. “Yes.”  
  
His breath caught, thinking he might have misheard her. “Yes?”  
  
“Yes.” She nodded quickly, biting her lower lip slightly.  
  
“Okay.” He resigned softly, his smile changed his expression from shocked to unreasonably content.  
  
“Okay.” She echoed and swung her arms as she turned with a small grin.  
  
He watched her retreating form as she turned the corner, then returned to leaning against the ledge, downing his drink in one smooth swallow with a tilt of his head and a smile.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
______________  
  
  
He stood staring at the blank paper in his hands at the desk of the telegraph office. The agent, a rather unpleasant looking man in spectacles and terribly long mutton chops, tapped his fingers expectantly.  
  
He wanted to send ahead the bad news to give time for the anger and disbelief to subside. At least that was his hope. He wasn’t quite sure how he should let her know the news.  
  
 _‘Dear Katy. I am returning with a wife. I am sorry you wasted four years of your life.’_  
  
 _‘Dear mother. I am coming home with a southern, penniless wife who I can’t seem to refuse. Please tell Katy.’_  
  
Neither seemed exactly prudent. His mother would be a challenge but not impossible. His father would likely shake his head disapprovingly and study Pamela’s waist for evidence of the true reason. If he was lucky, his father will have already returned to Washington by the time they got there and Katy will have moved on, tired of waiting on a ghost. He tended not to be lucky, however.  
  
He quickly scribbled the message and handed it to the agent before he changed his mind.  
  
 _‘Dear Father. Returning within the month with a wife. James.’_  
  
That would do for now. After all, there was very little more official than that.  
  
“Can you tell me where I can find a minister?”  
  
______________  
  
“So, let me get this straight, son. You have a local girl you want to marry in the next couple of days so you can make your way back to Philadelphia.”  
  
James sat stiffly on the hard wooden bench in the priest’s office at Episcopal church on Valley Street. He knew this was likely an uphill battle. The small but unfortunate part of the Union’s forces had sought to rape and pillage their way across the South, and no doubt Stoneman’s Raiders themselves had left a bitter taste in the mouths of most people in the mountains of western North Carolina. To add insult to injury, many wealthy southerners, forced to sell off family heirlooms just to survive, had their belongings snatched up by opportunistic northerners like vultures. Young southern women faced limited prospects in marriage now that most the men were dead, either by marrying below their status, older men or, if desperate enough it would seem, Union soldiers. It was not something that was well thought of—on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.  
  
The older gentleman sat across from him behind a large desk, pulling at his collar in irritation. “You blasted Federals. It’s not enough that you force your will upon us, grind your boot heel into our faces, and slaughter all our men. But now you see fit to come and steal our women as well. God will have his vengeance upon you, mark my words.”  
  
“Perhaps he will. So you will not marry us then?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
  
  
Securing a wagon and supplies, thankfully, came far easier. A horse trader located on the French Broad river was able to sell James a wagon and two cart horses. He was unsure if his cavalry horse had ever pulled a wagon and now was not the time to discover that fact. It would be much simpler, not to mention safer, to just lead the excitable gelding behind them. They would have to make their way to Morganton to reach the closest railroad and even then, James wasn’t sure if it was operational. The Union had destroyed much of the South’s rail lines in an attempt to cut off supplies from reaching Confederate locations. There was a strong possibility they wouldn’t find a running train until Richmond.  
  
Feeling somewhat encouraged by the small success of transportation, he decided to call on the one person in all of Asheville that owed him a favor.  
  
__________  
  
  
James was escorted into the parlor at the Morgan’s residence to find Mr. Morgan reading a month's old edition of the Wilmington Journal, a stack of other regional newspapers on the table next to him.  
  
“Colonel Halpert, what a pleasure.”  
  
“I hope I’m not interrupting your studies, sir.”  
  
“Not at all. I’m just catching up with the news of the state the best I can out here in the wilderness. I have my man that checks on the tobacco shipments at the coast bring me back papers from the towns he passes through.”  
  
“My father owns a newspaper in Philadelphia. I can have you sent editions if you would like?”  
  
Mr. Morgan’s interested look didn’t escape James. People were always impressed at his father’s successful newspaper but to James, it was just another thing that kept him away from home when he was growing up.  
  
“That would be splendid. What can I do for you?”  
  
“I am not sure if perhaps you heard—“  
  
“That you plan on marrying Miss Beesly and returning with her to Philadelphia?” He smiled at James’s expression, “It’s a small town, Mr. Halpert.”  
  
“Mr. Morgan, I have a favor to ask of you. I have secured transportation for Mrs. Beesly and Miss Penny to St. Louis. They have family there that they would like to stay with now that their home here is gone. However, I feel it is only proper they have an escort for security as it is a long journey. Do you have someone you recommend? A trusted employee or servant perhaps?”  
  
Mr. Morgan rose from the plush, deep red chair where he sat and moved to a crystal decanter, pouring himself a glass. “Would you like a brandy, Mr. Halpert?”  
  
James shook his head, instead running his fingers over the felt material of his hat he still held in his hands.  
  
“You’re an admirable man, Colonel Halpert. You will be a far better match for Miss Beesly than that Anderson boy. I never liked that family. They have made their fortune but they act like…well… it just goes to show that money cannot buy decency.” He took a long sip of his brandy as he stood looking out the window pensively, “I had known Mr. Beesly for many years and he would have approved of this union, I’m sure of it.”  
  
“Thank you, sir, truly.”  
  
“I have a man that I can send with Mrs. Beesly and her daughter. He’s a long time employee of my house and I trust him with their care.”  
  
“That will suit them fine. I will make sure I book him passage as well.”  
  
“No need, son. I’ll take care of that. I’ll send him to make arrangements.”  
  
James nodded and made his way towards the door. “One more thing, sir. Do you happen to know of a minister who would marry us? The few I’ve visited this morning refused, as I am no doubt a Northerner plundering an innocent southern woman of her virtue.”  
  
Mr. Morgan chuckled at his bluntness. “I will reach out to the Methodist minister. He’s a reasonable man and let us just say those new pews in his chapel were not cheap.”  
  


______________  
  
  
He knocked lightly on the door to her room, and when she opened it, he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.  
  
“Good afternoon, Miss Beesly.”  
  
“Mr. Halpert.” Her smile matched his but propriety’s ever-present restraints convicted her and she corrected herself quickly. She stood in the doorway with the door pulled to her but he could see her sister in the background listening intently.  
  
“I was wondering if you and your mother and sister would honor me with your presence at dinner? I made reservations for the private room at Madison's. I’m sure your mother has...questions.”  
  
“Indeed, she does.”  
  
“Do I need to worry about a noose around my neck by evening’s end?”  
  
She softly chuckled and looked down shyly, “No, I don’t believe so but perhaps you should wear your necktie in case.”  
  
He smiled at her joke and leaned toward her slightly, drawn to her in the same way the moon is pulled into the orbit of the Earth. “Is seven a good time?”  
  
With her nod, he tapped the door frame nervously and said his goodbye. Seven it was.  
  
  
  
James could be a charming man but this was far beyond anything he could talk his way out of. Mrs. Beesly sat across from him, an array of white linen and crystal laid out between them, the clink of silverware and glass filling the air as the servers busily prepared the table.  
  
All three ladies donned black mourning dresses once again, having sourced replacements for their ruined wardrobe.  
  
Her oldest daughter had presumably given her a shock when she told her this wayward Union soldier wanted her hand. He felt a certain amount of empathy for the woman. Nearly every aspect of her life had been dramatically changed in a matter of days and now this, the prospect that she might not get to see her daughter again for a very long time.  
  
“Why, Mr. Halpert? You have a young woman waiting for you, do you not? What kind of man propositions one lady unbeknown to the other?”  
  
That was a lot to cover and she got right to the point.  
  
“Mrs. Beesly, I can understand why this all seems forward and ill-advised but I can assure you I plan on keeping only one wife. Miss Moore has been released from any obligation to me and me to her. I have already sent a message to my family.”  
  
She pursed her lips and reached forward to take a sip of her drink.  
  
“My husband, God rest him, would have been livid that this pretentious Union soldier would be so bold as to presume he could waltz in here and steal away an already betrothed lady. How do I know you won’t return to your home and keep my grandchildren in squalor?”  
  
Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Pamela nervously shift in her chair, open her mouth to interject, then wisely shut it again.  
  
“I promise you, Ma’am, your grandchildren will be well cared for,” he swallowed, hazarding a glance at Pamela. Children hadn’t crossed his mind, though he surprisingly welcomed the thought. What it would require to create those children made him take a long, steadying drink before he continued. “I have servants that keep my house and will be able to provide Pamela with every need.”  
  
Her raised eyebrows encouraged him to elaborate.  
  
“My father is Gerald Halpert and a U.S Senator. He also owns the Philadelphia Evening Sentinel. I will be taking that over upon my return since my two older brothers have their own business ventures now. My father has grown weary of the paper business as his political endeavors have become more pressing. He is eager to hand it over, no doubt. It is why I must return as soon as possible.”  
  
“I see.” Mrs. Beesly tried to maintain her stern expression but her will was beginning to falter.  
  
James prided himself on the fact that people rarely knew of his family’s importance upon their first meeting him. Many in society wore their net worth like a badge, displaying proudly their superior birth and the privileges they enjoyed. His brothers had mastered this by the time James was in grade school and he often found himself embarrassed at their ostentatious displays of the Halpert name’s influence and wealth. He instead liked to leave people guessing. He obviously came from some sort of higher status evidenced by his rank and learned speech but beyond that, he did not like to mention his family unless pressed. This was certainly one of those times his last name had benefits. He hoped that he had dispelled any of Mrs. Beesly reservations that he could provide for her.  
  
“I believe I have secured a minister to marry us. I assumed you would want to be present Mrs. Beesly and we, of course, could not travel without an escort unless properly wed.”  
  
He turned and looked at Pamela now, his expression changing from businesslike to soft with the lowering of his voice. “I hope that isn’t presumptuous. We can have any wedding you desire, Miss Beesly. I can wait until arrangements can be made. Please just inform me of your wishes and I will make it so.”  
  
Her cheeks visibly warmed, and it wasn’t the result of the summer air, “Mr. Halpert, I believe the war has made weddings distasteful in light of all the suffering around us. I think even my father would have seen that.”  
  
She looked at her mother and sister before continuing, “A small ceremony will be suitable for me.”  
  
Despite the impropriety, another smile came of its own volition. “Very good, Ma’am. I will make the arrangements.”  
  
____________  
  
  
James laid in his bed yet again staring at the ceiling above him. He was becoming quite familiar with the faded water stains there after several nights of fitful rest, now having decided that the shapes looked like a fat elephant and several violins. Fate seemed to be driving him forward with tremendous momentum but instead of being fearful it filled him with calm. As if finding himself in these current circumstances was exactly where he was meant to be.  
  
“Halpert!”  
  
He started at the sound of his name being shouted from the quiet still street.  
  
“Halpert!” the voice repeated, “You God damned, yellow Yankee, get out here and face me.”  
  
He jumped up, pulling on his boots, and grabbing his pistol, flinging the door to his room open. As he made his way down the hall, several doors opened as their confused occupants came to see what roused them from sleep. He saw her step out into the hallway, her dressing robe clutched tightly around her and a terrified look on her face.  
  
“It’s Mr. Anderson,” she stated without preamble.  
  
“I know. Please stay in your room and lock the door, Miss Beesly.” He heard more shouting and he looked away before returning to her, “Please. I beg you.”  
  
She nodded curtly and closed the door and he didn’t step away until he heard the click of the lock engaging.  
  
When he stepped out onto the front porch of the hotel he was met by four men on horseback carrying lit torches. Squarely in the center sat one very drunk, very angry, Roy Anderson.


	4. Memory Believes Before Knowing Remembers

James often wondered how he was alive; how he managed to emerge relatively unscathed from a war that took so many. At the most recent count, there were over five hundred thousand fathers and husbands and brothers and sons that were not returning home as he was fortunate enough to. Those who survived rarely spoke of it, but it haunted them just the same. The look someone gives as their life slips away. The disembodied and painful begging for mothers and wives one heard as they pushed through a fallen line. The fleshy sound of a bullet tearing through someone and the bitter taste gunpowder leaves behind.  
  
His father had talked often to him and his brothers about standing up to bullies, fighting for those who could not fight for themselves, and he tried to remind himself of this when his soul was weary from the death that surrounded him. When he was a boy, he remembers walking home with dread, the swollen left half of his face throbbing. He knew he would be punished, the likes of which he had never previously known, for getting in a fight after school, but he also knew that he would likely do it all over again. His friend was smaller, more soft-spoken than he was but no one had ever bothered him before that day. When he came upon the alleyway where his friend was being pummeled for merely existing by two boys several years older, he had a choice. He could have walked on, pretending to not see them, return home to Miss Beatrice, their cook, and her incredible afternoon pies. He stood planted in place, his feet not able to continue on their path. Something deep inside him couldn’t just pretend he didn’t see and even though he was terrified of the boys that stood a foot taller than him, he stepped in the middle.  
  
He knew for certain that his father would send him away to a boarding academy for this, something he had threatened to do before when his grades were less than acceptable. Instead, after listening quietly to James’s broken explanation and damp eyes, he simply stood, patting him soundly on the shoulder before returning to the parlor and his readings.  
  
An uttered “Well done, James,” as he walked away.  
  
When he faced them again years later, they were on the other side of the battle line and he was no longer a foot shorter. He watched those two boys, now men clad in grey wool, die in front of him. He thought about how many men he had watched die beside them; how many by his own hand. He had heard it called Da Costa’s syndrome; the war that soldiers brought home with them, that continued to wage on in their minds. It woke him in the still of night and sometimes the shaking of his hands was so bad he shoved them in his pockets just to hide it. He did not regret it, despite everything he had seen, for the same reason he never regretted stepping in the middle that day with his friend. It had to be done.  
  
Anderson reminded him of the boys in the alleyway. Someone who had always gotten his way, that rarely, if ever, heard the word ‘no’ except this time the one telling him no was wearing a skirt. To James, the curly-haired, green-eyed reason had completely consumed his thoughts since the moment he’d met her and once again, he was stepping in the middle.  
  
“I simply offered the lady a choice.”  
  
“She didn’t need a choice. She had already made it.” He jerked his horse mercilessly, “Unless you’ve already separated her from her virtue, you dirty Yankee scum, as which I should hang you from the nearest tree.”  
  
James tried to give his most unimpressed expression at his absurd accusation.  
  
“I haven’t touched her and I would appreciate you not sullying her reputation purely for your wounded pride.”  
  
“Did she invite you to her bed then? A whore to a Federalist scoundrel.”  
  
“That is enough.” He gritted his teeth at the utter disrespect for a woman that had done nothing to deserve it. His fiancée, his mind supplied, whose honor felt deeply entwined in his own now.  
  
“Mr. Anderson, you are awfully loud for such a late hour. Do you mean to wake the entire town and embarrass yourself?” An older gentleman with a tall frame and kind eyes rounded the corner of the building, startling them both.  
  
“Mr. Vance? I had not heard you had arrived back in town.” Anderson was noticeably unsettled and it was clear that this man, who was slowly smoking a cigar, held some sort of status.  
  
“I am and you are certainly souring the delightful evening I’ve just had with your ridiculous tirade in the middle of the street.”  
  
“I have due grievances. This despicable Unionist has soiled my bride-to-be and plans on stealing her away North to hide his crimes.”  
  
“Is that true, sir?” He turned expectantly towards James, despite not knowing his name.  
  
“Not in the slightest. I have done nothing untoward and she remains free to choose whichever suitor she prefers. I just believe Mr. Anderson is afraid he will be found wanting.” James spoke with the steadiness of a man with nothing to hide.  
  
Robert Vance studied the young Union soldier in front of him, clearly roused from sleep but a firm grip on his pistol nonetheless. His calm confidence a sharp contrast to the incensed drunkard on horseback.  
  
“Indeed.” He held out his hand towards James in greeting, “I am Colonel Robert Vance. I likely stood across a field from you just a few short months ago but we somehow both lived to tell the tale. What’s your name son?”  
  
“Colonel James Halpert of Philadelphia.” His reply was polite and respectful despite keeping one eye on Anderson and his compatriots. He was convinced that Anderson wasn’t above a cheap shot when he wasn’t looking.  
  
“How is it that you are here in western North Carolina, in a dispute over a lady with Mr. Anderson here?”  
  
“I was on assignment to return General Stoneman’s nephew safely to his family. I was able to be of some assistance to the Beesly family with the death of Mr. Beesly and the loss of their home.” His eyes moving calmly between Colonel Vance and Anderson, with only passing animosity when landing on the latter.  
  
“Yes, I was sad to hear of the trouble that has befallen the Beesly family while I was away.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully, and James could not help but notice the man’s air of authority. He didn’t know much of Carolina backwoods politics but he imagined this man was quite important.  
  
“Like a snake in the grass, he was. I bet you set fire to their home. Sounds like somethin’ a no good, yellow—-“  
  
“Mr. Anderson, if you would please,” Robert raised his voice slightly and exasperatedly over him. “I’m sure we are all clear on where you stand in terms of Colonel Halpert’s integrity. Perhaps we should inquire the young woman in question? She might offer some insight into her opinion, could she not?”  
  
Anderson spit on the ground before he spoke, indignantly, “You want to ask a woman? A foolish woman that has no doubt lifted her skirts for this Lincoln-lovin’ Nancy-boy.”  
  
James’s gun suddenly felt heavy in his hand, the weight of it begging to be lifted and fired. A simple solution to shut this man and his insufferable mouth up for good.  
  
Before he could respond, a small voice came from behind him.  
  
“Go home, Mr. Anderson.”  
  
She emerged slowly from the shadow of the door, impressively already fully dressed simply in black, affording her the ability to go unnoticed until now.  
  
“Go home. You are drunk and the hour is late.”  
  
“You can go to hell, woman.” He dismounted abruptly and moved in her direction and James had finally had enough.  
  
He lifted his revolver and aimed it squarely at Anderson’s chest, the loud sound of hammer cocking an audible promise.  
  
“Don’t try me. I’ve done it for far less.”  
  
Anderson froze, rage causing his features to tremble slightly as he stared first at James and then behind him to where she stood.  
  
“Let’s get out of here, Roy.” The man he remembered as Kenny from the poker game finally spoke with a strong southern accent. They watched as the four men retreated, their torches painting orange shapes into the ink-black of the night.  
  
“My advice, Colonel Halpert,” Robert spoke quietly, once the light faded completely, “would be not to linger in Asheville with your young bride. Roy may be a drunken waste but his father is considerably more powerful and has connections. He could bring quite a bit of trouble your way and he will no doubt see this as an insult to his family name.”  
  
James met his stare and nodded seriously as he considered his words, “Thank you, sir.”  
  
“No need. Mr. Morgan spoke highly of you at dinner tonight. It’s just unfortunate we had to meet under these unpleasant circumstances.”  
  
  
_________

  
This was certainly not how he pictured this day to be.  
  
Growing up in Philadelphia society, he had been to many weddings full of dramatic floral arrangements, vocal soloists, and expensive French champagne. That was before the war, of course, and he imagined that even weddings there, where the appearance of wealth was everything, were far more subdued now. His wedding, here in the rectory of a Methodist church in the Carolina mountains, was near perfect in his mind. He gave only a fleeting thought to the absence of his family and the vision of her when they met in the foyer of the building was one he was not ever likely to forget.  
  
As the minister extolled the virtues of an honorable husband and a dutiful wife, he never heard a word of his lecture. Instead, all he could think about was the delicate skin at the base of her neck. The way color crept up her chest when she held his gaze and the way her cheeks seemed to soften before she smiled. The intense light in her eyes when he slipped her ring on her finger. The intoxicating way her breath would catch as he repeated the minister’s words, despite that he likely had the undeniable look of a drowning man because that was certainly what he felt like.  
  
He almost missed his cue, so lost in her, that he may now kiss his bride that he looked at the minister in shock for a moment before returning to face her, suddenly nervous. He had kissed women before, surely, but this was entirely different. When his lips brushed hers, he felt her energy vibrate through him and he placed one hand gently on her face to steady himself. The world around them, with its death and devastation, faded away. All that existed was the taste of her lips, the scent of her skin, and the feel of her under his hands. The minister cleared his throat, reminding them of the restraints they had momentarily forgotten but he didn’t want to stop, to leave the safe harbor of her. He reluctantly pulled away but his thumb continued to stroke the soft skin of her cheek, as their eyes exchanged silently what their bodies longed to and he saw there a reflection of what he had just felt, causing a heat to flow through him that threatened to burn him to his core.  
  
“Perhaps we should…” She politely regained her composure but failed to finish her thought.  
  
“Yes, we should.” He agreed with a nervous glance at the minister and then her family. He wasn’t sure what he just agreed to do but he knew, without a doubt, that he would follow her anywhere.  
  
  
The seat was uncomfortable and the road relentlessly rough as the wagon made its way in the opposite direction from the mountains. Their cerulean, angular shapes becoming smaller as the hooves of the horses put mile after mile between them. He pushed aside the twinge of guilt he felt when she turned around and watched them fade away before facing forward again and giving him a small, sad smile. The very idea of her unhappiness disquieted him in a way he had never felt before; which was unnerving in and of itself. He had secured Mrs. Beesly and Penny at the Morgan’s for safekeeping until their stagecoach could arrive and take them on to Knoxville and the tearful goodbyes of the Beesly women nearly made him bring them along. They had stood in the courtyard of the Morgan’s fine mansion, he shifting uncomfortably while she sobbed in her sister’s shoulder; Mrs. Beesly’s words filling him with sorrow at their finality.  
  
“Take care of her for me, Mr. Halpert.”  
  
His answer honest and revealing, “With everything I have, Ma’am.”  
  
As the road stretched out in front of them, they filled it with conversation, learning more about the person sitting next to them with each passing mile. They exchanged pieces of their history freely; he sharing stories about his brothers, growing up in Philadelphia and sometimes Washington, while she reciprocated with tales of her sister and their interesting extended family. Her smile was entrancing to him and he found himself thinking of ways he could elicit a smile and laugh from her over and over again.  
  
“What do you want me to call you?”  
  
“What you do mean?” He replied with a small laugh. “My name, I suppose.”  
  
“I just mean, I have been calling you Mr. Halpert since you told me to not use Colonel, and since I am now Mrs. Halpert it seems…” The mention of ‘Mrs. Halpert’ sent a thrill through him.  
  
“James. Please call me James.”  
  
She smiled shyly, “Pam. My family calls me Pam and only Pamela if they are cross.”  
  
“Oh good, now we are formally introduced.” He replied dryly followed by a smile. She chuckled softly with a shake of her head, looking demurely in her lap.  
  
“We certainly find ourselves in a peculiar situation, don’t we James?”  
  
“Indeed we do. This mad world has seemed to have lost all rhyme or reason, so we must find our own way.” He replied, watching the road.  
  
“Are you happy with the way your life has gone?” There was an undeniable venerability in her question that had very little to do with names and formality.  
  
He turned his head completely towards her, studying her before replying, “I am unquestionably happy.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
____________ 

  
They passed through the grieving land left on the road leading to Virginia, haunted by its past transgressions; the pernicious presence, leaving her people downtrodden and hopeless. The pastoral scenes dappled with tales of loss. Burned out and ransacked homes dotting the landscape.  
  
The shadows were long and stretched out on the ground when they pulled up on the boarding house that had been recommended to them, now just a charred frame of the once standing building bracketed by brick chimneys. Another apparent casualty of Sherman’s or Stoneman’s scorched earth.  
  
“Well, it appears we won’t be lodging here tonight.” He sighed as pulled the horses to a stop.  
  
“It appears not.”  
  
He pulled the wagon brake and looped the reins loosely around it. “Let me at least water the horses and fill the canteens before we continue on.”  
  
He hadn’t yet gotten used to being able to touch her freely and, besides helping her in and out of the wagon, their kiss at the altar had been their only real contact. This time when she surrendered her balance in his arms, the horses shifted, and instead of dropping to the ground the wagon pushed her towards him; she slid slowly down his body, his breath catching at the intimate contact. He expected her to back away embarrassed but instead, she remained tantalizingly close, her hands sliding down from his shoulders to lightly grip his arms beneath the cotton of his shirt. He could feel her breasts pushing against his chest as her breath quickened and briefly closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. The desire to kiss her was overwhelming and this time he didn’t resist. There was only the two of them now, with no audience, and he took full advantage. He urged her lips apart with his own, needing to be inside her, and she welcomed him with a soft moan. The sound she made broke the last of his control as he wound his arms around her, one trailing up into her hair, the other pulling her more tightly to him. When he finally released her lips, they were both breathing heavily, straining for air between their open mouths as they panted together. He slid his nose gently along her cheek, not wanting to give up contact with her skin quite yet, until he reached the edge of her ear, and she tilted her head slightly allowing access to her neck.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the fine hairs he found there. It was a lie, of course. He wasn’t sorry at all and it took all the strength he had to keep from finding the nearest soft place in the grass, stripping her naked and doing to her things he had only read about in the tawdry dime novels his brother had kept hidden in the back of his drawer. He _was_ sorry if he had made her uncomfortable and it was that thought that made him pull back to look at her.  
  
Instead of being horrified by his base behavior, she looked dazed, her hair slightly disheveled from his hand and her lips swollen from his. She gave him a small, enigmatic smile and when her eyes finally met his there wasn’t embarrassment or shame found there but hunger and he was certain that this woman, would indeed, be the death of him.  
  
_____________  
  
  
It was nearly dark when the exhausted horses pulled their wagon in front of the clapboard roadhouse on the edge of the river, the first building they had seen in the hours since coming upon the burned-out boarding house. The jovial sounds of male voices and the clinking of glass poured out of the weathered building, with its sagging front porch.  
  
“Stay here while I go inquire about any nearby places to stay.” She nodded as he handed her the reins with a reassuring squeeze.  
  
Two Union soldiers busted through the front door, spilling blunderingly into the dirt yard in front of the building, beyond intoxicated. When they noticed them, they loudly whispered something vulgar and stared openly in her direction.  
  
“On second thought, come with me.”  
  
She slid across the bench as he reached for her, helping her down with both hands solidly on her waist. She gave him a knowing little smile as she straightened her skirts. He grabbed his uniform coat from the back of the wagon, hoping perhaps the blatant display of his rank would dissuade any further overt inappropriate gestures in her presence, although he doubted she was so delicate as not to notice even the subtle ones.  
  
As they opened the door to the house, the rowdy room quieted immediately, all eyes were on them as they made their way to the front; the men watching her like crouching predators that had spotted their prey. Many soldiers hadn’t seen a female in months beyond the laundresses that followed the troops and those were mainly prostitutes that occasionally did laundry on the side. A proper lady was a rarity.  
  
The old man behind the bar eyed them suspiciously as he poured a drink from a large brown jug.  
  
“Evening, sir. We are traveling through and require a place to stay the night. Is there anywhere we can retire for the evening?”  
  
The man’s gaze wandered over Pamela speculatively before his eyes landed on her wedding band.  
  
“There’s a boarding house across the river there but ya ain’t gettin’ across until morn. I reckon’ you can stay upstairs for the night. I have a few rooms that might make your wife there comfortable.”  
  
  
  
As he shut the door behind them he noticed the obvious absence of a lock, and he sighed, almost afraid to turn around and take in the condition of their accommodations. When he did, he found her standing in the middle of the room, a look of fear and trepidation on her face and he immediately went to her, taking her hand in his.  
  
“I am so sorry. This is not where I had hoped we would stay tonight,” embarrassment plainly evident in his features brought on by his own failure to impress her on their first evening together. He hazard a glance at the bed, its simple metal frame, and lumpy mattress had most certainly been used for more than sleeping. “This place is terrible and not suitable, I’m sorry.” He didn’t know quite what to say beyond that. Short of sleeping outside under the wagon, this was it. He wasn’t used to traveling with a lady. It was usually just himself or a bunch of men, all of which were contented with a fire and their bedrolls, so long as there was a bit of whiskey involved.  
  
It occurred to him without warning that they would have to sleep in that bed—together— for the first time and his face suddenly felt hot. He had never shared a room with a female apart from his sister and that had been as children.  
  
“It’s fine, Mr. Halpert. I can make a suitable bed out of this.”  
  
“James.” He mumbled as he set down his coat and revolver on the table.  
  
She turned from where she had already pulled the dirty quilt off the bed.  
  
“My apologies, I am very nervous.”  
  
“You have no need to apologize.” He turned to her, noticing her trembling hands as she shook out the blanket. “Pam, I am not going to suddenly attack you. You don’t have to be scared of me. Ever.” His voice was low but firm and he hoped that she would hear the truth in it. The world had told her, under no uncertain terms, that he had every right now to demand anything he wanted from her.

He wanted her to know that he never would.  
  
She shakily exhaled and closed her eyes in resignation and he reached for her hand, encasing between his own and bringing it to his lips. “We don’t have to do anything until you are ready and certainly not here tonight.” His soft declaration punctuated by the sound of raised voices and shattering glass from below them.  
  
She wordlessly shook her head and visibly relaxed before quietly adding, “We have to consummate our marriage. It is only proper.”  
  
He brushed the backs of her fingers across his lips before he spoke. “Not here. Not like this. Let us just get some rest.”  
  
She nodded again with a soft smile and he let go of her hand.  
  
“Do you want me to leave while you change for bed?” She looked up at him from where she had been studying the pattern of the blanket in her hands and held his gaze for a long moment before shaking her head and motioning to the flimsy dressing partition in the corner.  
  
A knock came at the door and the roadhouse manager entered without invitation with a tray and a basin of clean water. “This is all we got. It ain’t fancy but it's good.” The noise, no longer muffled by the wooden door flooded in behind him, filling the room. He set them both down and straightened, his eyes lingering on Pam longer than necessary before James stepped in the way.  
  
“I’m sure it will be fine, thank you.”  
  
He closed the door behind him with another heavy sigh. He could not wait to get back to the civilization Philadelphia provided. It had a seedy underbelly certainly like every large city did, but it managed to hide it well; as long as one could look past the blatant pickpockets and prostitution and open sewers.  
  
He sat down on the bed to remove his boots as she gathered her things to change and he watched her out of his peripheral vision. He had no idea what a woman did to prepare for bed. Women were an enigma of sorts. Layers of silk, corsets and stays hiding the mysteries underneath. For all he knew, and as far as any unmarried gentleman was concerned, they appeared fully dressed magically every day.  
  
She moved behind the thin separator, the sound of fabric and laces filled the small space. He went to work the fire, adding another log that was not necessarily needed, anything to keep his mind from what was happening on the other side of that gossamer linen panel. He dropped his suspenders and pulled his outer shirt over his head and off, leaving his cleaner undershirt to sleep in. He heard the fluttering sound of her petticoats falling, seeing them pool under the bottom edge of the partition and he felt his stomach drop. He meant every word of what he said; he would wait however long she needed, but having her so nearly naked and so close might very well kill him.  
  
She moved to the chair near the window, now dressed in her chemise and a silk dressing coat, and began taking down her hair, long curls falling delicately as she unpinned them. He stood transfixed, watching her from the fireplace.  
  
She glanced at him when she noticed his silent gaze. “Why are you staring at me?”  
  
“Your hair. There’s just so much of it.” He watched as another chestnut strand fell past her shoulders.  
  
She grinned shyly and glanced at him again, “I know, my sister calls me a Cocker Spaniel. I hate it.”  
  
“No, you shouldn’t hate it. It is very…” He hesitated as he navigated the uncharted territory of speaking pleasantries to a woman that would soon share his bed, “beautiful. I like it down very much.”  
  
Her pale skin blushed furiously at his compliment and it warmed him to see it. A sudden, loud crash and bawdy shouts from downstairs caused her to jump and he studied her reaction from where he leaned against the mantle. 

“They won’t come up here and if they do, they will have to get past me, which will not happen.”  
  
She nodded but he could tell she was still uncertain. “Do drunk men make you nervous?”  
  
“Yes, a bit,” she admitted. “My father would drink.” She looked over at him as she pulled the brush slowly through her hair, and he patiently waited for her to continue. “He was not pleasant when he did. He would shout angrily and break things. Sometimes he would get violent.”  
  
James moved from the heat of the fireplace to sit on the edge of the bed and she turned in her chair to face him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he murmured quietly.  
  
“It is silly of me. It still just makes me uncomfortable.”  
  
“It’s not silly.” He sighed tiredly at the noise below them, “They have probably forgotten we are even here and will likely pass out soon.”  
  
“We can only hope,” she mumbled and smiled faintly at him.  
  
As he lay down beside her in the dilapidated old bed, pulling the moth-eaten blanket over them both, she tensed slightly. He moved his hand to rest in the valley of her waist but beyond that, he took care that no part of his body touched her.  
  
“Is it okay, that I put my hand here?” He felt ridiculous asking the question considering what happened beside the wagon earlier and the fact that he was now legally allowed to, but he did it anyway, wanting her to relax.

“Yes. It’s fine.” Her small voice came only slightly louder than the commotion carrying on downstairs.  
  
“Get some rest. I’m here.”  
  
  



	5. Bound For Another Home

It was the loudest sound James had ever heard.  
  
He had once had a cannon fire right next to him, rattling every bone in his body, the ringing in his ears lasting several days. This was far worse. The earth erupted with furious power sending clay soil and animals and humans flying high into the air with devastating destruction. The reverberations of the blast seemed to pass right through him and his heart momentarily stopped at the concussions. There was an eery stillness that descended the field immediately after as the land recoiled from its onslaught. Stunned silence befell the early morning air before the dew had even settled on the grass. Blood dripped wet on his hands as they gripped the reins, only then noticing it coming from his nose and ears; a result of the deafening explosion. Slowly cries of men and shouts of charging filled the air beyond the smoldering remains as line after line of Ledlie’s soldiers plummeted into the crater left by the blast, piling one on top of the other as the wall of earth was trapping them there.  
  
James watched helplessly as his own soldiers followed into the pit of death, its ground moving with the bodies of those that had fallen. His father’s words rang in his ears: men will follow a leader worth following. He had tried to be a worthy commander and his soldiers were loyal, defending him until their dying breath. He had led them there that day, compelled to adhere to the commands of the generals, knowing many of them would never see the noonday sun. Instead, they would needlessly sink into the blood-red clay underfoot of thousands of others doomed to the same fate. Ignoring the demands of his superior officers, he abandoned his horse and charged in after them, vowing to share in their destiny. A destiny brought on by the choices of others; fighting for ideals that instead found them standing knee-deep blood and mud and what was left of their rhetoric.  
  
He heard his men's’ dying cries in his dreams. In his nightmares. 

He jumped with a start, his body tense and ready to fight before realizing there was no threat. Exhaling deeply, he recounted that he was in a bed and not a Virginia field lined with trenches; the early morning light sending streaks across the room and highlighting the dust in the shabby roadhouse. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until white stars appeared behind his eyelids, driving the ghosts of his past from his mind. There was a shift and a soft sigh from next to him and he was reminded he wasn’t alone.  
  
She was there, a vision of ivory skin, and eyelashes and amber curls; turned towards him now, having shifted in the night and he soaked in the sight of her. Never having been able to study her so thoroughly without interruption, he indulged as one would while taking in a piece of art. The lines and gradients of her were like poetry and he felt his soul healing by degrees. The freckles across the bridge of her nose. The way her hair fell in endless soft ringlets down the slope of her back. The curve her hips under the blanket. If he was fortunate enough to do this every morning for the rest of his life it wouldn’t be nearly enough.  
  
He had no idea how long he laid there enjoying the view of her but when he heard the strangled cry of a rooster in the distance he was reminded where they were and the long journey they still had in front of them. He slipped quietly from the bed but the ancient springs woke her at his movement. She sat up slightly startled and taking in her surroundings. Her dressing gown fell open, revealing the thin layer of her shift and the faint outline of her breast underneath, and his body stirred awake of its own volition.  
  
“Good morning.” He spoke quietly as he pulled on his boots and reached for his weapon, refocusing on getting them safely to the train in Morganton. “I trust you slept well?”  
  
“Surprisingly, yes. I must have been more tired than I thought.”  
  
“You have been through much in recent weeks. I wish I could afford you the rest you need but we must get to Morganton early if we have any hope of catching a train.”  
  
She pushed herself sleepily from the bed, not bothering to tie her bedclothes around her in modesty and the small act of intimacy caused warmth to travel down his spine. “No need. I am rested enough. Shall I see if the landlord has breakfast available?”  
  
“There is no lock on the door so I will wait until you come with me,” he motioned toward the door before haphazardly tucking his shirt into his pants.  
  
He watched as she unfolded her black dress and draped it near the changing partition.  
  
“How long must you wear your mourning dresses?” He knew it was customary for women to wear them for a year or more if they were widowed or a family member died. Men were only committed to a few months of mourning while society wished to see women in black indefinitely, it seemed, and he would very much like to see his wife in something other than black silk and crepe.  
  
“Some in Asheville mourn for up to two years.” She pulled at the tattered edge of the skirt she held. “I do not think these will last two years.” The sad state of the hastily found dresses after the fire were not nearly as fine as she deserved.  
  
“I will send you to our dressmaker when we arrive in Philadelphia and we will get you anything you desire. He is from Paris and my sister and mother single-handedly keep him in business. My father jokes that he should be put in his will considering the amount of his fortune that has already gone to him.”  
  
She smiled bemusedly at his joke and it brought a rush of satisfaction to him.  
  
_________________________  
  
  
The sun was still high when they pulled the wagon into Morganton, a sleepy town on the Catawba River, and it was clear that a train had not run through there in many months. Hollowed out buildings riddled with shell holes and burned out remains outnumbered the functioning buildings left on the Main Street. A few people milled about but mostly anyone seen on the street walked quickly to their destination to avoid them.  
  
“I reckon you best look on to Hickory or Winston-Salem for a train. The damn Yankees done tore up nearly all the tracks in the state.” The burly man running the general store informed them as he pointedly stared James down in his Army issued pants. He sat in a chair on the front porch of the rundown building in an ill-fitting suit, while his friends sat nearby enduring the afternoon heat the only way one could, by moving as little as possible.  
  
A man near him, smoking a pipe, spoke up, “That’s a right bit funny. A Yank tryin’ to get on a train the Yanks destroyed. I believe they call that poetic justice.” His southern lilt caused the words to stretch like molasses and there was a chorus of snickering from the audience of men in front of the store.  
  
“You are not being very helpful.” James gritted his teeth in frustration.  
  
“Is there a boarding house nearby?” Pam’s small but strong voice brought all the eyes to her. A woman speaking up in a group of men was one thing but her distinctly different accent from the man she was with was another.  
  
“Where are you from? You're a pretty little thing, are you meaning to be with this Unionist here or are you being held against your will?” The pipe smoker inquired to laughter from the group.  
  
“I reckon she don’t look like a workin’ girl.” The store owner added.  
  
“She is my wife and I’ll thank you to speak to her with respect.” His tone garnered no argument.  
  
They all nodded in acknowledgment and the pipe smoker pointed across the street, “Miss Marlene’s is the nicest place around but her brother was killed at Antietam so I don’t reckon she’ll take too kindly to housing a Unionist or a Union sympathizer for that matter.” He looked pointedly at Pam and James put his hand on her back to guide her away from them.  
  
“Thank you and good day,” he replied curtly as they turned and made their way across the street. Behind them, they could hear the continued commentary on the questionable morality of a Northern man taking a Southern wife.  
  
They found Miss Marlene’s a welcome respite from the several long days of the journey. The older matron’s hospitality was welcoming despite their warning and she even had the young women she employed, bring up hot water so Pam could take a bath in their room while James tended to the horses at the livery. They enjoyed a hearty meal on the porch, watching the lightning bugs coast quietly on the cool Carolina breezes. After nightfall had completely darkened the sky and the stars emerged, they brought the remains of their meal and wine back to their room.  
  
“Can I ask you a question?”  
  
“Of course. You can ask me anything. I always want there to be only truth between us.”  
  
“Why did you marry me?”  
  
He didn’t expect that at all and the physical breath was knocked from his lungs before he regained the rhythm of breathing.  
  
He cleared his throat, buying his nerves time to steel themselves. “Well, there’s a couple of reasons. First of all, I could not, in good conscience, submit anyone to that brut of a man, Anderson. I meant what I said, I would not loan my horse to him, let alone a lovely woman he in no way deserves.”  
  
“Does that mean you deserve me then?”  
  
“I do not think anyone deserves you but I will happily take the role since you are willing to give it to me.”  
  
Her mouth opened slightly at his confession before the edges lifted in a small smile.  
  
“Well, I certainly appreciate your gallantry. He was rather unpleasant and the longer we were betrothed the worse he became,” she commented wryly as she filled her glass halfway and studied it. “I should probably tell you what happened the night of the fire. Perhaps I should have been forthcoming before you married me.”  
  
Her change in demeanor made his heart suddenly thrum harder in his chest and he waited expectantly for her to continue.  
  
“He came knocking at the kitchen door well into the night and our servant woke and came to fetch me. He was drunk, which I despise, and he reeked of a liquor cabinet and that terrible perfume they sell at the general store. I have no idea why he smelled that way or why he felt the need to visit me at that hour.”  
  
“I have a pretty good idea,” he mumbled with disdain.  
  
She squinted slightly at his odd reply before continuing, “When I asked him why he was there and how inappropriate it was, we told me he wanted to set a date for our wedding. That he had waited long enough for me.”  
  
She hesitated and met his eyes; a nervousness mixed with regret there that was undeniable.  
  
“I told him we would discuss it later when he was sober. He did not seem to like my insinuation or suggestion and he got forward with me.” She twisted her hands nervously in her lap now, as his nerves twisted in his gut. “He put his hands on me, rather aggressively. I’m sorry James. I should have told you this earlier. I was afraid if I did, you would not want to marry me and since you want truth between us as you say, I wanted to come clean—” the words poured out of her in a rush before he could process them all and he stood abruptly to stop the flow.  
  
“Stop, I don’t care about that. He forced himself on you?”  
  
“Well, I did not stop him. I was not sure what the etiquette was seeing how I was to be his wife.”  
  
“The etiquette is, he keeps his hands off you until you are properly wed.” He was livid at the audacity that he would think it fine to barge into a woman’s house in the dead of night and assault her because they were betrothed.  
  
She glanced nervously at him again.  
  
“Well, regardless, Ms. Rebecca must have been around the corner even though I had dismissed her. Her timing was fortuitous because he let me go when she came back into the room. She was quite nosy but for once that characteristic had a use, I suppose. I’m not sure he would have stopped until...He was angry and insulting to me but he left.”  
  
“God, he really was a Neanderthal. I should ride back to Asheville and shoot him where he stands.”  
  
“Please, do not. I have no desire to see him ever again.” She peered through her lashes at him again, ”You are not angry with me?”  
  
“Why would I be angry with _you?_ ” He furrowed his brow at her in confusion. She let the question hang between them like the answer should have been self-explanatory and he bristled slightly. He was not the sort of man that blamed the woman for violence perpetrated against her will, despite that being the view that most of society held.  
  
“He will not bother you again while I’m living.”  
  
That he knew for certain. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, so incredibly deviant, it could not possibly warrant accusation even to a man like Anderson.  
  
“Do you think he set the fire?”  
  
She looked up at him suddenly, her face going pale before resigning to the truth.  
  
“I had considered it, yes.” Her voice was small in a way that pulled at something deep inside him. “We will never know for certain.”  
  
His mind spun at the implications. All three of them could have perished not to mention any servants that might have been around, and the destruction of property had been absolute. He could seek reparations and even criminal charges by proxy now that it all technically belonged to him by marriage. With his lawyers and connections, he could no doubt make Anderson pay dearly and she would never know. The desire to seek revenge was powerful but as he watched her sitting at the small, modest table in her black dress, a vision of strength and dignified suffering, the desire to make her happy was even stronger. He would spend his days putting her needs in front of his own, even if it meant letting a man like Anderson get away from facing the justice he deserved.  
  
She pulled one of the wildflowers from the vase at the center of the table, an obvious placement by the landlady, and began twirling it between her fingers. “What’s the second thing?”  
  
He raised an eyebrow at her questioningly. “You said there were two reasons you wanted to marry me. What was the second one?” she clarified a slight hint of humor in her eyes that caused any thoughts of Anderson to vanish completely.  
  
He relaxed at her change of subject and even though anger still had his chest racing, he sighed with a smile as he rejoined her at the table. He reached for his glass, unsure if he should confess what he was really thinking in light of her revelation.  
  
“Well, if I’m honest…”  
  
She shook her head slightly in amusement at his hesitancy, “Truth, remember.”  
  
“Truth can be embarrassing, might I remind you.” He bought himself some time by reaching for the decanter and filling his glass to match the level of hers. He wanted to confess that the thought of spending even a day apart from her scared him to death and from the moment he laid eyes on her he wanted to know every secret she held.  
  
He didn’t say that, of course. Instead, he chose something less dramatic but nonetheless honest.  
  
“Maybe I just wanted you.”  
  
She stilled her twirling of the flimsy purple flower, “You do?”  
  
“Of course I do. You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” He marveled at the naivety of her own bewitching effect on men.  
  
She shook her head in disbelief, “My sister was the pretty one. I was always bookish and plain.”  
  
He laughed quietly, “There is nothing plain about you and I quite happen to like women who are bookish. I would much rather have a woman with a mind towards fulfilling discussions than someone with no discernible sense of humor.”  
  
“Many men would not. I have been told on several occasions that I would be far more attractive if I kept my proud mouth shut and remembered my place and purpose.”  
  
He could venture a guess who had said that to her.  
  
“That is true but I am not one of those men.” He wasn’t afraid of intelligence in a woman as some men were. Using their physical advantage to force them to submit lest they reveal their own shortcomings to the world. He thought briefly about the woman he almost married and how she was decidedly not bookish or proud. Society had trained Katy well to be no more than a beautiful decoration.  
  
“I know.” She looked up at him, her eyes glimmering with much more than she spoke aloud and he held her gaze, unable to break away. She was burned into his soul and he would never be the same.  
  
The nervousness settled between them again at the openness of their exchange. He tilted his wine glass back and quickly finished it before reaching for the cheap tin and glass decanter, pouring himself another.  
  
“I have no idea how to be a wife.” Her confession broke the silence of the small quiet room and he smiled at her candor. She was adorable when she was nervous and he wanted nothing more than to prove that she already knew everything she needed to by doing what she already had.  
  
“My mother told me exactly three sentences on marital relations so I am afraid that is the extent of my knowledge in this area.”  
  
The realization that she was speaking of that aspect of being a wife caused him to shift nervously. He was intrigued at what sort of guidance a mother gave a daughter and his curiosity won out.  
  
“What were the three things?”  
  
She stood to pull the curtains back at the window and survey the small lantern-lit street of the town. She was obviously uncomfortable with the answer and it amused him. “You won’t laugh at me?”  
  
“I will not laugh. Truth, remember.” He echoed her words back to her.  
  
She gave him a shaky smile, “Well, if you must know, first you must never deny your husband. ‘Wifely duty’, I think she called it. I was mortified at the entire conversation, mind you. Much like I am now.” She mumbled the last as she looked back out the window.  
  
He smirked at her blushing, breaking off a piece of the bread on the plate in front of him and motioning for her to continue.  
  
“She told me it will hurt and be unpleasant but if you are very still it will be over quickly. And that is how one gets with child.”  
  
He couldn’t help but smile at her again and when she looked frustrated at his reaction, he burst into laughter.  
  
“You gave me your word you would not laugh!” He could tell she was trying to hide a laugh of her own at his reaction, her cheeks turning a shade of scarlet.  
  
“I’m sorry, I did.” He attempted, very valiantly, to appear serious. “I do not mean to cast aspersions against your mother, but that is terrible advice.”  
  
“Oh, is it?” she replied, indignant.  
  
He just replied with another smirk around a mouthful of bread and she finally acquiesced a smile of her own, hiding it with a shake of the head as she looked down.  
  
  
  
The crudely marked candle at the table continued to burn as it logged the hours passed. Their conversation wound through topics like a thread pooling from a spool and he watched as the wax dripped beyond the confines of the holder before observing the flickering light on her face. A large drip of hot wax fell on the edge of his hand with a stinging hiss and she reached for it, bracing it in both of her own before wiping the cooling wax free with a swipe of her thumb. The feel of her hand caused sparks of heat, far hotter than any wax, to course through him, and as her lips touched his skin to soothe the injury, those sparks ignited into flames.  
  
He could feel the soft puff of her breath and the warm moisture of her mouth on his skin and he forgot how to speak.  
  
“I’m…fine,” he managed to force out of his constricted lungs.  
  
With a boldness that was unthinkable to a lady, she met his eyes, her lips still softly caressing the fine hairs and skin of his hand, “You are now, I would imagine.”  
  
He swallowed hard and made a mental note to find the candle maker in the morning and thank them profusely for their poorly made product.  
  
Much to his dismay, she let go and pulled back.  
  
“It’s getting late. Perhaps we should go,” she glanced up at him through her eyelashes, “to bed.”  
  
“To bed?” It was more of a statement than a question and his mouth suddenly felt dry and hollow panic washed over him at her implication. It wasn’t his first time, it wasn’t even his second. Both of those belonged to his fifteen-year-old self and the older girl that had lived four houses down from him, ambushing him one afternoon in the hidden expanse behind the grassy knoll of the cemetery. There had been several nameless and faceless women over the years but this was the first time he had ever done this with _his wife_ and suddenly he was fifteen and unsure of himself all over again.  
  
She must have noticed his frozen fear because she blurted out, “There is no changing curtain.”  
  
“I’ll leave then,” he stood, turning to the door.  
  
“Please stay.”  
  
The air was electric between them at her words and he could hear her slightly labored breaths over the sound of the warm breeze flapping the cotton curtains.  
  
They exchanged nervous smiles and she sat on the edge of the bed lifting her skirts out of the way to remove her shoes, the laces easily falling away as she slipped them off. She glanced at him shyly before lifting her foot and resting it on a nearby stool. She pulled her skirts even higher until she reached the top of her stockings and untied the small blue ribbon holding them up above her knee. As her hands slid the cream-colored material down, the smooth skin of her leg was revealed to him and he stopped breathing. As she repeated the motion on the other leg he reached behind himself blindly searching for purchase on the worn chaise lounge sofa he knew existed somewhere in the room and sat down slowly, not taking his eyes from her.  
  
As she began unbuttoning the top of her bodice, she smiled at him again. “There are so many buttons,” she whispered followed by a shaky laugh.  
  
When she slipped the black piece of fabric from her shoulders, she kept her eyes down, her off-white corset remaining. As she reached behind herself to undo her skirts, her breasts pushed up and against the stiff fabric and he leaned back slightly on the chaise with a shuddering breath and wolfish expression. With a sudden flourish, her skirt, petticoat, and cage fell in a billow of silk and muslin at her feet and for the first time, he saw the true outline of her body.  
  
“I know this is not proper but given our circumstances…” she failed to finish her comment on the lack of sufficient accommodations in the simple boarding house. Watching a woman of her social standing undress was considered impolite at best and sinful at worst. Right now, Queen Victoria and her propriety could stay the hell out of his bedroom as far as he was concerned.  
  
“Do you want me to stop?”  
  
“Most certainly not.” His voice was low and gravelly and wasn’t entirely sure he spoke the words out loud as he focused on where the small tie was separating at the top of her corset.  
  
He must have because she stepped out of the mountain of fabric, draping it unceremoniously over the back of the chair.  
  
“Will you help me?” She turned away from him and indicated to the laces stretched across her back pulling the bone-lined fabric tightly around her body. He stood on shaky legs behind her and his trembling fingers began pulling the cords free from the eyelets, fumbling ever so often. Once the last loop pulled, the stiff fabric fell loose and left only her thin linen chemise. Without invitation, he pulled the pins slowly from her hair until it fell down her back and ran his fingers through the silky ringlets. It was the softest thing he had ever felt up until the moment his fingers pulled at the ruffled edge of her chemise to expose her shoulder, his large hand wrapping around the expanse of skin.  
  
His lips found the same soft place at the edge of her ear that he had discovered before and he left a small kiss there before continuing his path down the ridge of her neck with his mouth mapping the way.  
  
“Your skin is so soft. So perfect,” he murmured against her bare shoulder as his nose traced a pattern on her skin, inhaling her essence. He felt, rather than heard her sigh in response, and with a tremble, she turned to face him. Her eyes were dark and mysterious as she pulled at his shirt, releasing it from his pants with a small tug. She reached up to the buttons, pushing each one through with intention as she held his gaze; her fingertips grazing the skin on his chest as she revealed it.  
  
His control waining rapidly, he slid his hand up the outside of her arm, tentatively weighing the teardrop of her breast through the thin linen.

“Perfect,” he whispered again.  
  
He reached for the small tie at the top of chemise and, after seeking silent permission with his eyes, pulled the tiny strings; with a small shift of her body, the wrinkled material fell with a soft flutter.  
  
“My God.” He murmured in awe, his eyes looking her over hungrily, every part of him calling out to her. She pulled an arm over herself embarrassed and he shook his head, gently guiding her wrist away from her body; his other hand slid down her back and over her ass, cupping it and pulling her pelvis against him. He was certain she must feel him against her abdomen as he whispered into the heat of her slightly opened mouth, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”  
  
As he claimed her lips with his, he felt her surrender under his hands and when he pulled back for air, her eyes looked dangerous and drunkenly wanton.  
  
“You are still dressed.” Her voice sounded warm and inviting; promising more than he could have imagined. She would be dutiful yes, he knew that much about her already. She wanted to do what she believed to be right, sometimes at the cost of her wishes. She would no doubt be with him whenever he asked but that wasn’t what he sought. Beyond willing, he wanted her to want him, not out of obligation but of desire. There were very few things that meant more to a man than the desire of a woman he cared about.  
  
He shed his clothes quickly and stood before her, her eyes lingering appreciatively before stepping forward and sliding her hands through the springy hairs on his chest. He kissed her again, feeling the nervous tension drain from them both. He felt the building of something else inside him, and as he relinquished control, it flowed through him, pushing him towards a place only she possessed. He laid her back on the bed, her lovely body bare, a tapestry before him. He touched her softly as he hovered above her, tracing the peak and slope of her breast before lowering his mouth to the tight nipple, cupping the yielding flesh in his hand. She inhaled and he glanced up to make sure he wasn’t hurting her.  
  
“Is this all right?”  
  
She nodded and he lowered his head again, trailing his mouth over her until he found the other turgid nipple, giving it equal attention. A shiver ran through her and he felt it ripple into him in kind.  
  
Running one hand down her hip, and back up her thigh, he whispered against her skin, “Tell me if I’m too rough or it hurts or you want to stop altogether.” His hand drifted downward until it found the soft patch of hair and the delicate skin beneath it. Her breathing came quicker at his touch and she let out a breathy moan as he explored with one finger and then two.  
  
“Does it hurt?” He stopped and looked at her again. She reached for his face, caressing it.  
  
“No, it does not hurt.”  
  
He positioned himself as she guided him to her, closing her eyes and biting her lip as her inner muscles enveloped him. She tensed and he hesitated, raising his head from where it rested against her shoulder to look at her. He sank down further, a little at a time until their hips sat flush against each other. He stopped and they both breathed heavily as she adjusted to him.  
  
“Oh, God." He exhaled a groan at the sensation of being embraced so deep inside her. "Jesus, Pam."

She pressed her forehead to his chest and her fingers tightened on his shoulders as he made love to her slowly, her body drawing him in and retreating like the tide. Complimentary pieces fitting perfectly together as they exchanged murmurs and touches and she reassured him she was alright. He opened his eyes to look at her as she looked up at him in return and it was as if his soul recognized hers, that in some far off distant place and time they had experienced this together. Succumbing to the strange emotion, he closed them again, shutting out every sensation except where they were joined and with a desperate thrust and a murmured curse, a release so intense he knew he saw stars.  
  
Lying together afterward seemed natural as all of the previous awkwardness had melted away with their exploration of each other’s bodies. She rested her head on his chest, their fingers tangled together, as his hand stroked in an endless path through her hair draped down her back, over her ass, down her thigh and back again.  
  
“Can I ask you a question?” Her voice barely over a whisper and he hummed contentedly his reply.  
  
“Did you enjoy it? Did I do it right?”  
  
He pulled back slightly until he could see the silhouette of her face. “Why in the world would you think I didn’t enjoy it?”  
  
“You haven’t said much. I just assumed…”  
  
“Pam, I can barely form coherent sentences.” He stroked the hair back from her face gently, “I can’t imagine it gets any better.”  
  
He saw her smile against his chest and she nestled closer against him.  
  
“My mother was very, very wrong.”  
  
  



	6. She Passed Through

This was no nightmare, but it certainly was a dream.  
  
He didn't want to open his eyes for fear the dream would be over, and she would disappear. He had never woken up with a woman in his arms before, but there was one in his arms now; warm and infinitely soft, hills and valleys of sublime pleasure. He ran his hand slowly over her, mapping a landscape he would spend the rest of his life discovering. Her back fit against his chest perfectly, her bottom against his stirring pelvis as if it was designed to be there, completing and complimentary like the rib in her that once belonged to him. She shifted slightly with a sigh, and he pulled her hair back from where it had fallen, exposing her neck to him, and he buried his face there, breathing her in. She was a blend of her and him, the night evident on her skin, and the distinctive musk of a woman designed to bypass any rational thoughts a man might have.  
  
She stirred again, and he kissed down her shoulder slowly, taking his time, his fingertips brushing the undersides of her breasts teasingly.  
  
"James," she murmured sleepily in confirmation as if he would ever allow any other man in her bed like this, touching her the way he was now.  
  
"Good morning," he whispered into her skin.  
  
She hummed in reply, turning in his arms to lie flat on her back, and his wolfish grin widened as a new expanse of her skin was revealed to him. She was a mosaic of speckled grey, pre-dawn light, painting her surface with the soft breath of morning.  
  
"I do not want to get back into the buckboard. Can we stay here?" She smiled shyly, the unspoken meaning of her words, causing him to smirk.  
  
He would happily stay here, secluded in this room with her, for the rest of his days if he thought he could get away with it. Lost in the sea of soft blankets, strong arms, and yielding flesh.  
  
"Unfortunately, I think Miss Marlene would grow tired of us taking up her best room and eating all her food. I would like to think the sooner we get home, the sooner we can enjoy the comforts there."  
  
He longed to get her back to the safety Philadelphia provided for them, where his name and influence ensured they would not be bothered, and he could give her whatever she wanted. She was not the kind of woman to fancy luxury that he knew, but he wished to offer the world to her and lay it at her feet, regardless.  
  
Between them and the train home lay the heart of the Confederate rebellion, where anyone in a Union uniform was still the enemy and anyone giving quarter to one, or sharing their bed with one, as it were, was just as much a traitor.  
  
"You said you have a house?"  
  
"Oh," he realized he hadn't ever discussed where they would be living, "Yes, I only really lived there a handful of months. It was not long after I returned from West Point that I left for the war. I spent many of those months in Washington with my father."  
  
The way she was twirling one of her soft curls in her fingers was terribly distracting, he became aware, as his own fingers whispered against her upper arm tracing invisible paths while he spoke.  
  
"I have servants and a head housekeeper. You will like her. She all but raised my brothers and me. She moved to my home from my parents' shortly after I purchased it. I am fairly certain she still sees me as ten with pudding on my face."  
  
She turned to face him, tucking her hands under her face on the goose feather pillow as she listened intently, a delighted and amused expression on her face.  
  
"It hasn't really been decorated beyond what was there when I bought it. You can make it however you would like." He had not cared at all for the furniture that came with it, his taste being more austere. There hadn't been much thought at all to it before now. It was checking off a box. He did everything a responsible young man was supposed to do to be a good son: graduate school with honors, diversify his investments, buy a home with twelve rooms to live in by himself.  
  
"If it does not please you, I can sell it, and we can find another."  
  
She scoffed in disbelief before realizing he was serious. "What does it look like?"  
  
"Well, it is not incredibly large, but it sets back from the street with several large trees. There is a terrace both on the North and South faces with wrought iron. And arched windows, I remember that."  
  
She was amused at his confusion, "How do you not remember what your own house looks like?"  
  
He recognized now the playful character her voice took on when she was teasing him, and it made him laugh softly.  
  
"It has been four years, Miss Biddable," he returned with a smile.  
  
"I think I would like to paint on that terrace."  
  
"You can do whatever you want on it. It is yours now, after all." She grinned and shifted under the blankets bringing her leg to stroke against his, and he was beginning to think staying an extra day in Morganton might be feasible.  
  
"Do you like to paint?" They had not yet broached the matter of hobbies, and it was among the thousands of topics he was newly interested in. She was an endless, fascinating spring of conversation that he could see himself delighting in for the rest of his life.  
  
"I like it very much. My father discouraged it, wanting me to focus on other areas of study. When he sent my sister and me to seminary to finish our education, I took an art symposium."  
  
He had heard the whispered harsh disprovals, from many a displeased gentlemen, of these seminaries that had become fashionable for wealthy southern families to send their daughters to. Similar to finishing school where a lady would learn how to remain domesticated, docile, and pleasing to her husband, these new institutions conferred knowledge beyond prose, music, or art. This terrified many men around him in Philadelphia society, the scandal of allowing women to become more than ornamental.  
  
"I can read Latin and speak French somewhat, but beyond discussing Robert Browning or creating a flower arrangement, I am afraid I cannot do much that is useful."  
  
"Well, I like Browning, and the French will come in handy with the dressmaker." He smiled until she finally relented and returned it, pulling her hand from the pillow, and lacing his fingers through hers, pressing them to his lips.  
  
"You're wonderful," he spoke barely above a whisper as though he hadn't entirely meant to speak, "You are. I cannot wait for my family to meet you."  
  
Her face fell slightly, "I fear your enthusiasm will not be shared."  
  
"Why do you think that?"  
  
"A Southerner beneath your station?"  
  
"You will see. My father might be difficult, but my mother will come around. My sister will be delighted, you having tipped the family scale in the female direction if nothing else. My brothers will likely only notice you in passing. They are rarely home, but their wives, Marcie and Cindy, will welcome you, I'm sure."  
  
He only hoped he was right.

____________________

  
With their path being set once again to East, in search of an ever-elusive train, they packed, bid goodbye to their host, and crossed the street to the general store for supplies.  
  
"Go on in and pick out anything you like. I'll see to the blacksmith and have him begin preparing the wagon."  
  
She stepped into the shop, the dusty floorboards creaking under her weight, the door propped open with an old cast iron coal iron. She saw the storekeeper near the back, straining to place a large jar of buttons on a top shelf, his suit still ill-fitting on his portly frame.  
  
She cleared her throat demurely in an attempt to alert him to her presence, but instead, he startled, sending the large jar shattering to the ground, buttons scattering in every direction.  
  
He turned to her to glare, and recognizing her from the previous day, his annoyance flared to anger, beginning his tirade as he made his way down the ladder.  
  
"You blasted woman! Look at what you made me do."  
  
He stormed towards her, his large, heavy footfalls sending vibrations through the floor. To her credit, she stood her ground; her rather shocked expression the only outward indication of her trepidation.  
  
"You owe me a glass jar, you Yankee lover."  
  
He stepped across the threshold just in time to place himself between them.  
  
"You were not concentrating." He would be damned if a store clerk would be allowed to take his frustrations over the state of the country out on his wife before breakfast.  
  
He held his stare, promising no further transgressions would be permitted, verbal or otherwise, and the stout man ceded his stance.  
  
He turned his head to the side, maintaining eye contact with the storekeeper but directing his voice to where she stood behind him, "Let us find the provisions we need and be on our way then." They moved wordlessly to the rear of the store, the breadth of her skirts rustling against the narrow tables, finding where a shelve of neatly folded cotton and wool pants and shirts, dyed in variations of the same color of beige and tawny, reached several feet high.  
  
He leaned down with a whisper, avoiding the prying ears of the shopkeeper and using it as an excuse to be near the delicate skin of her neck, "Help me pick something. I may not make it out of the Shenandoah Valley alive in this Union uniform."  
  
He saw the profile of her face grin warmly while running her hand over the grey folds on a stack softly, "I'm afraid that might be a lost cause. The cavalry hat is a telltale sign."  
  
"I think I'll take less obvious then. I might have stolen the hat off a less fortunate man, after all."  
  
She turned her head, causing her lips to be enticingly close to his, "Yes, but once you open your mouth, well-bred Northerner is plainly evident." His eyes flitted down to _her_ mouth, knowing what it tasted like now; she was opium to him, and he was indeed addicted.  
  
"Well, I must take my chances then," he murmured, completely forgetting about Confederate grudges and new clothes entirely, only reluctantly dragging his eyes away from her as another patron entered the store.  
  
Another day's journey found them in Lynchburg, a surprisingly larger town despite its name, with trampled dirt streets expanding beyond the town center and, blessedly, a functioning train station. The late summer air was heavy and smothering, like walking through layers of velvet, and smelled of wood smoke and turpentine as if the pine trees themselves had surrendered to the suppressing Virginia sun. The wind was shifting, the heat causing thunderclouds to rise mountainous into the sky and darken out the already dim light from the retreating day.  
  
He jumped down, his legs aching after endless hours in the same position, much more accustomed to being astride horseback than an unforgiving slat of wood.  
  
"Mind your skirts; there is mud." His voice carrying softly over the hustle of the main street as he lifted her from the wagon and setting her down safely on the planked sidewalk in front of the hotel."Let us hope they have a room, or I may just forgo the hotel altogether and suggest we sleep in the back of the wagon."  
  
"Despite the impropriety and questionable comfort, I would agree." She replied weakly, attempting to straighten the wrinkles in her skirt pressed into the material after hours of sitting, her cheeks slightly flushed from the sun.  
  
"I expected you to be rested given the amount of time you spent asleep against my arm."  
  
She gaped in disbelief and shocked embarrassment until she caught the look in his eye that relayed his humor. Looking down with a smile against her hand in feigned insult, she leaned into him with a slight elbow to his ribs as he chuckled at her response.  
  
"Shall we eat in the dining room or order our meal to our room?" There were a thousand questions beneath the surface of the spoken one, and each one passed between them.  
  
"Our room would be preferable unless you have an objection," she replied softly. The words and the implied meaning behind them caused him to shiver, and it was not from the coming storm bearing down on them. This was new to him, this familiarity and unfettered access to a woman, and over the last few days, he found himself thinking about it far more than a gentleman should, and his palms twitched with the urge to touch her.  
  
His lack of response made her rephrase the question, "Should we eat downstairs then?"  
  
"Under no circumstances," his voice low and purposeful, and she blushed slightly.  
  
He looked around, appraising the quality and patronage of the hotel and deeming it safe enough to leave her, "I will see to the horses and train tickets if you will arrange dinner."  
  
He squeezed her elbow in farewell, and her returning smile was mysterious and intimate, causing him to exhale slowly; the promise of the evening stretched out before him.

__________________

  
"Can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Every time you ask me that, I get nervous." She shot him a bemused look over the wine glass. "Just ask your question without preamble. Nothing is off-limits, you know that." They had taken their dinner luxuriously slowly, getting increasingly comfortable as the evening wore on, loosening top buttons and discarding shoes, remaining decent in case the hotel servants might enter the unlocked door at any time to check on them.  
  
Finery covered the table between them as this place was considerably nicer than their previous accommodations had been, and their meal had been nothing short of lavish. He took a bite of the cheese, humming satisfactorily before passing it to her to try. She took it from him without question, contemplating her question while enjoying it.  
  
"Did you always want to be a soldier?"  
  
"Not particularly, but it was what was expected of me." He reclined in his chair, hooking his arm casually over the back of it. "My father went to West Point and his father before that. My family has fought in every war back to the French and Indian War, always finding glory at the end of a sword or musket it would seem."  
  
She studied him, looking over him so long it began to make him wary until she finally spoke again, "Was it scary? The fighting and the battles? I cannot imagine what you went through."  
  
He considered for a moment how much to divulge to her, which of his silent, invisible scars to reveal. Some horrors were buried far too deep for anyone to recover, and he refused to burden her with them.  
  
"There are days I feel like I should not have survived. Far braver men perished, and somehow I am still here, somehow I manage to continue breathing." He spoke softly, in hushed tones to honor the dead, "If there was any good in me, it seems to be long gone, left on the battlefield with everything else."  
  
She reached across the expanse of the table, the fine linen tablecloth bunching beneath her elbows, "You are still good. There is more honor and goodness in you than in half of the men in the Carolinas." Her hands were infinitely soft in his, and her touch had him suddenly wanting to be as close to her as possible. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, feeling the blood pulse slowly to the beat of her heart, a low fire beginning to burn.  
  
"My parents had a civil relationship," she shifted topics as if reading his mind, "they respected one another, were even good friends, I imagine. This seems different." She watched their fingers stroke and twine together in an endless loop of caressing heat.  
  
"Is this normal, do you think? What it feels like between us, is this what it is usually like with a man and a woman?" Her question was vulnerable in its honesty, and it was one he had asked himself dozens of times since he had first laid eyes on her.  
  
"No, I do not think this is…typical."His extensive education suddenly failing him as he searched for words, "What we have," he finished barely above a whisper as he leaned closer, his hand reaching for her face before kissing her forehead, letting his breath linger against her warm skin. With his eyes fluttering closed under the weight of his desire, his lips moved down her face, with the lightest of touches on her temple and eyelids before resting his cheek against hers. "I can scarcely breathe when I'm away from you. That is certainly not typical."  
  
A loud knock at the door caused them both to jump, his knee hitting the table, causing silverware to fall to the ground with a clatter.  
  
"Mr. Halpert, would you like me to clear away dinner?" A high, pleasant voice came from the other side of the door, and they both looked sheepishly at one another as he exhaled a small laugh.  
  
"Yes, please." He replied politely as he rose to answer.  
  
He waited at the door until the two servants finished their task, thanking them as he shut the door behind them, the lock engaging with a click under his hand. They stared at each other from across the room in open anticipation. The cool breeze from the storm pressing into the space from the open window, making the air damp and charged.  
  
In a few lengthy strides, he was in front of her, his mouth on hers, his hands holding her face between them, all the politeness of the previous evening gone. He was no longer willing to hesitate or apologize for wanting her, all the pretense falling away as she responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and parting her lips, beckoning him deeper.  
  
They separated, skin flushed and breathing heavy as she slowly began to unfasten the buttons down the front of her dress, impatience causing his hands to reach up and help her.  
  
"You have a ridiculous amount of clothes on." He mumbled in frustration as he helped her strip off her dress, moving quickly to the petticoat and corset.  
  
"Patience is a virtue, James," she replied quietly, focused on her laces, deftly loosening them at a pace that caused him to smirk lupinely.  
  
"Not when I want to make love to my wife, it's not."  
  
Finally relieved of the confines of silk and cotton, he picked her up, legs around hips, as he gently placed her on the bed beneath him, the cool linen sheets at her back.  
  
"All I've been able to think about all day is this." He murmured as he tasted the skin of her neck, and she moved languidly, her breasts soft against the hardness of his chest. His hips settled onto the harbor of hers, flesh blended into flesh as he returned home, and the world faded away from around them.

______________

  
  
The long, melancholy whistle filled the early morning air, and a dozen heads turned in the direction of the sound. It almost felt like a novelty in light of how long it had been since he had seen one, the coal-black engine, and white steam billowing against the azure Virginia sky.  
  
The train groaned to a stop, metal screeching against metal as the enormous machinery stilled with a gasp and a stutter, passengers pouring out of every opening.  
  
After giving their luggage to the porter, they watched as the ramp was lowered on the railcar with a dusty thump to the deck of the station, horses and workers immediately spilling out of it.  
  
His horse snorted in nervous disproval and began to swing his haunches anxiously from side to side where James held his head, and by extension, the front half of his body steady.  
  
"Easy, boy." He spoke calmly as he ran his hand smoothly up the animal's broad, ink-black brow bone to stroke the forelock of hair between his ears.  
  
She watched the exchange with a soft expression, "Does he have a name?"  
  
"Sergeant." He replied with a hearty pat to the poll of the horse's neck.  
  
She reached out to stroke the delicate, soft flesh above his nostrils, "Well, Sergeant, you must be pretty special."  
  
"He carried me for the last four years safely. By my estimations, I owe him at least a nice stall and paddock for the rest of his days."  
  
"Well, then I owe you too, Sergeant." The soft black muzzle pushed against her hand, and she smiled, glancing up at him to share in her amusement.  
  
He could almost feel the Pennsylvania air fill his lungs now as he was one step closer.  
  
Home. Normalcy.  
  
When she put her hand on his thigh to reassure him as they settled in their seats, he covered her hand with his squeezing gently. As he studied her watching the countryside blur past them out the window, he realized his definition of home had begun to shift infinitesimally away from a place and towards the woman sitting next to him.


	7. To Finally Be Seen

It seemed both familiar and strange in the distinct way places do after a long time away. A flood of memories line every street corner, wrap around every tree; the security of the known, intermixed with faint memories, like the echoes of those before and the sharp-edged memories with them. He knew that house, that street, that alleyway. Things had changed in the passing four years, surely. The trees had grown, their trunks expanding and their branches more heavily laden; shrubs taking up more space and vines overtaking more of the structures they possessed.

He felt the change in him more profoundly. He looked upon the familiar landscape with different eyes. He had experienced a transfiguration brought about by tragedy and horrors, responsibly and experience. His world was broader now, and it made Philadelphia somewhat smaller, an unraveling of the order of things previously staunchly solid. His young idealism and absolutism had been replaced by the cold realism that life was indeed short, bodies fragile, and that one had to hold on to goodness fiercely, lest it slips through the fingers. Life at war had chipped away at him, irreparable damage to who he was, but she filled in the cracks and crevices of him more and more each day.

It was late and dark when he pushed his long, unused key into the lock of the large oak door, thankful they could slip in during the quiet hours of night. The servants would not be returning until morning, and it afforded them rare privacy, and he was able to take in his surroundings wordlessly as the merging of what was and his new life, of her, began in earnest.

The large clock in the foyer rang the late hour with an air of judgment before resuming is tireless ticking as he turned up the lantern resting patiently on the table for them, illuminating the room.

"Leave the trunks. The servants will bring them upstairs in the morning."

He turned to look at her as she silently took in her surroundings, her ungloved hand delicately gliding over the room's textures. He searched her features for a sign of displeasure at the home, the life, he was offering her; her approval suddenly meaning everything to him.

"It's lovely, James. Quite grand. I believe I shall be mistaken for a kitchen maid if I am not careful and be put to work."

He laughed out a relieved sigh at her levity, "Nonsense, you are the mistress of the house, and anyone who treats you otherwise will have to deal with me over the matter."

She smiled at his affirmation, and he reached for her hand and drew her to him, "Come, let's go upstairs. I only hope Eleanore received my message and has everything prepared, or I may just retire to the couch for the remainder of the night."

Locating it again, almost by accident, down the long hallway, the large room of the master bedroom with its high ceiling was accented by a massive four-poster bed directly in the center. It was sparsely furnished with a wardrobe, a small bookcase and washstand, and two high-backed chairs framing the fireplace. She looked beyond the heavy damask print wallpaper to the next room, very clearly a servant's dressing room and beyond it to the smaller, more feminine, ladies bedroom. The Victorian notion of separate spheres of life for men and women even extended to sleeping arrangements, although he had never thought much about it until it now affected him directly.

"Would you like us to sleep separately?" 

"Not at all." He hesitated, the answer was clear to him, but perhaps her views were different, "Unless you would be more comfortable there, of course."

She picked up a silver candlestick on the mantle to examine it, glancing back in his direction, "It will certainly give the servants something to gossip about when they discover that bed not slept in."

"Well, you could move the blankets around in there every evening for appearances."

"Do you honestly think that would fool them?"

"I'm less inclined to worry about them than I am you. I want you in my bed every night unless you don't want to be there. I've never been one to put much value in the gossips downstairs, nor am I ever the topic anyway."

She blushed but remained looking at him, a slow smile creeping across her face. He was beginning to become acutely aware of her various looks and expressions, and this one was promising. He slowly stepped towards her, slipping his hand around her lower back and pulling her against him.

She dropped her head back and looked up at him warm contemplation, "I find it hard to believe that someone as eligible and charming as you was never the topic of conversation amongst the female servants."

Her voice dropped low, and it reminded him of the honeyed taste of her skin.

"I am not eligible anymore," he dipped his head to bring his lips to hers, "I am unequivocally yours if you will have me." His tongue touched her mouth in delicate invitation, and she bit his lower lip gently in reply.

"That question has already been answered, I would think." She whispered distractedly against him as her eyes fluttered closed, and the tip of her nose moved against his.

"Several times."

______________

Exhaustion pulled at him, but he was restless; the unspoken weight of the expectations that rested upon his shoulders and the eminent reunions drawing his eyelids open despite his efforts. He quietly slipped out of bed, only causing Pam to stir briefly before settling back down into the downy softness of the quilts.

He moved through his house silently, the only sound the slight give of the floorboards beneath his bare feet and the flicker of the single flame of the candle he held as he took inventory of his worldly belongings. He felt hauntingly distant to this place as if it were a life that belonged to another person, the oddest contradiction of feelings. Everything seemed simultaneously orderly and ordinary, so he once again to returned to his bedroom. The grey light began to permeate through the curtains' heavy fabric, and there was a stillness in the room's predawn air.

He didn't necessarily want to rouse her from her oblivion but he was drawn to her like a moth to flame. Her bare back was partially exposed where the heavy quilt had fallen away with the early morning light spilling in from the window, wrapping around her curves and past the bed's spires that framed her like a Renaissance painting. He moved closer, quietly sitting in the bed next to her running his hand over the warm expanse of skin on her back, pushing the blanket down as his hand explored further down the backs of her thighs and backside. She sighed contentedly at his ministrations and turned towards him as he lay down beside her, pulling the blanket over them both, suffusing in the bed linens' heat. 

"Again?" There was no dread or animosity in her question, only luxurious familiarity as he smiled against the delicate skin of her collarbone.

He slid his hand down her thigh as she opened to his touch with a whispered, "Always."

His mouth mapped its way around her body, slowly and contentedly, taking time to enjoy each slightly salty swipe of his tongue.

Her eyes opened sleepily as she slowly gained consciousness, her own hands beginning their own journey. As they worked their way down his thigh and tantalizing close to where he longed them to be, he groaned against her skin.

"Where did you get this?" The tip of her finger traced blindly down the large raised scar running the length of his thigh.

War stories were not what he had in mind when he started this.

"Antietam." His one-word answer was punctuated by the nudge of his face against the outer curve of her breast. He slid down her body, avoiding his final destination for now as his lips found the inside of her knee and found a scar of his own.

"Where did you get this?" He turned the question to her; the pale pink line stretched across the crest of her kneecap.

She turned her head to the side, eyes still closed in sensation, as she retold the story in hushed tones.

"My sister and I were trying to find her escaped pony. We climbed a large rock to get a better vantage point and I slipped on some moss." She murmured, turning her head in the other direction with a slight sigh as he slid his lips over it again. "My mother told me scars were unwomanly and repulsive to men, so I've always tried to hide it. Not that any man has ever seen my knees, mind you."

He smiled against her again. Just another one of her secrets he had exclusive access to, and he filed it way to draw upon later.

"I think we have established that many things your mother has said are not necessarily true. There is absolutely nothing on you I find repulsive. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Her skin warmed under his hands and mouth as he moved up her leg, glancing up to gauge her reaction to his intention. When his mouth grazed the soft skin of her inner thigh, her whole body tensed. 

"James! You can not. It's a sin."

He looked up at her, across the landscape of her body, "Who told you that?"

She paused, trying to remember who exactly, "I do not know," she replied incredulously, "Only that the ' _French way_ ' of things was not proper."

He rested his head against her thigh with a soft chuckle, "The French way, huh? I will have to ask Grégoire about that one day and see how bright his face will get."

She brought her hand up to her face in embarrassment, and his demeanor changed to a more serious one.

"I was told," his hand slid up to meet his mouth, "anything that happens between a husband and wife," his lips and hand slid higher, and he felt her thighs tremble, "Is all good in the eyes of the Lord."

"You must have had a more liberal minister than…" She suddenly forgot all about the French, the church, and the sinful nature of man.

___________

"Do you think they know we are here?"

"I would say that the trunks in the foyer are a dead giveaway." He chuckled mirthfully. She sat in the middle of the bed, watching him sleepily, a mountain of downy blankets surrounding her. One thing he had discovered is that she was not one to rise at dawn; instead, the less he asked of her before the sun rose above the horizon, the better.

"Take your time. I will send up the maid to bring warm water for the basin."

He finished pulling on his boot and leaned over the edge of the bed, drawn to her for one last kiss before he left the sanctuary of their room. Her lips, generous and warm, were calling him back to bed, and he briefly considered it before finally pulling from her grasp.

"I should get down there and officially proclaim our arrival home." He noticed as he studied her how the ring around the iris of her eyes was emerald green, but the color was made up of the tiniest flecks of gold, and he felt he could get lost there.

"If you must." She sighed exaggeratedly and tilted her head to the side in a way that tempted to pull him back into the flames of her.

"You, Mrs. Halpert, make it an exceptionally difficult thing to do."

She hummed her satisfaction as he stepped back from the bed, pausing briefly in the entrance of the door after he opened it, finally relenting to leave the only place he longed to be.

________________

"Jimmy, _mein Junge_! Come here and let me put my arms around you." He was neither surprised nor taken aback by the matronly, heavyset woman as she cornered him in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Her plump cheeks and bright eyes shown with deep love and affection for him, and she was someone he had truly missed. Eleanore Lapin had to come to work for the family years before he was even born, while his father traveled abroad in Prussia, and she had loyally stayed with them ever since.

She clutched his face as though he were still eleven. "How dare you sneak in this house in darkness! Look at you, so skinny! Do those Army men not feed you?" She said with a tsk as she pulled him in the direction of the kitchen and he followed with a smile, not yet spoken a word.

"When you father told me you were coming home soon, I asked him _Wie bitte_?! I could not believe it!" She prattled on as she bent over to stroke the fire in the double stove and added a small shovel of coal to the flame.

"Wait, where is this woman?" She stood suddenly as if just noticing his lack of a companion.

He smiled at her reaction as he leaned against the porcelain topped wooden table in the center of the room. "She's dressing, and it is so good to see you, Eleanore." 

"She is from the south, no? Why did you not marry the Moore girl, _mein Liebling_?"

He just shrugged in response with a slight smirk.

"Ah, your mother will be displeased. I suspect she will be calling on you later. Her kitchen-maid saw Ophelia at the market this morning, and I promise you the entire neighborhood knew of your return before your mother even digested her porridge." 

"I counted on as much. Pam will be down soon, and I can prepare her. Have the housemaid bring her some fresh warm water and help her dress if she needs it. I will need to find her a suitable ladies maid soon, I suppose, and take her to see Grégoire."

"Her name is Pam, ja?" Eleanore turned the name over in her mouth as she studied him.

"You love this girl, I see."

The insight of someone that knew him so well startled him. Did he? Was it somehow written on him? He had only begun to know her honestly. Gentlemen did not speak or think of such foolish ideas as love. Want and love were two entirely different things to man, and he desperately desired her, that was for certain. She was more important than anything else in his life, and he cared deeply for her. He was not sure that was love despite how precariously close to that line his feelings treaded.

Instead of a reply, he shook his head shyly, heat burning his cheeks as he examined his boots.

The head housekeeper nodded knowingly but wisely let the subject drop.

"Bring this Pam to the dining room, and I will get you both fed before your mother arrives." And with that, she began barking orders to the half a dozen servants, several he didn't recognize, within hearing distance.

_____________

As expected, Betsy Halpert arrived before lunch had even been announced. Tall and willowy, her grey satin dress made her long elegant neck stand out from her chocolate brown curls piled high on her head. Wisps of silver hair framed her face, but the evidence of her age was minimal. After a cool introduction, she studied Pam with a downward glance.

"Where is your family from, Pamela?" Her tone was icy, and James winced and shoved his hands in his pockets as they started to tremble. He knew this was an uphill battle, his family accepting an outsider like her, but he at least expected them to be civil.

Pam took a deep breath and began, what he imagined, was a planned response to the question. "Originally, my great grandparents landed in Savannah from Oxfordshire and Ireland. My family mostly lived in the Carolinas, and some now live in St. Louis."

"The Carolinas," she repeated with a slight twitch of her nose, "Is there much industry and commerce to be had in…where were you, son?" She swiveled towards him, "Asheville?"

Pam spoke up instead, "My late father was a businessman. He owned a very successful rifle company."

"Late? Is that why you mourn, or were you previously married?" Her eyes flickered down Pam's dress, both in judgment and observation.

"Mother," he interjected exasperatedly.

She turned to him again, not giving Pam a chance to respond, "One never knows with these opportunist girls, son? It is a perfectly innocent question."

"There is nothing innocent about that question, mother, and of course, she was not married."

She lifted her eyebrows dismissively in reply and turned fully taking his hands in her own.

"You will come to dinner tonight. We are having a celebration of your return safely from the war." He noticed how pointedly she failed to mention Pam or his marriage. "Your brothers are both in town even though your father will not be back until next week. I am certain they are anxious to see you."

She turned briskly towards the foyer as she spoke, "I must get back. Everyone has been sending their compliments on your news, and I have to manage the guest list," She dropped her voice as she turned and the servant draped her shaw over her shoulders seamlessly, "which will not be easy given the Moore family's reach."

"Yes, mother, we would be delighted." Pushing past the uncomfortable subject of his ex-fiancée's family, but his enthusiasm didn't quite reach his voice as he dutifully leaned forward with a quick peck on her cheek.

The servant closed the two large mahogany doors leading to the foyer behind her, leaving them alone in the parlor.

"She hates me." Pam exhaled the second he turned to face her.

He smiled at her lower lip, extending slightly beyond her upper one. "She hates everyone, so I would not worry yourself." He slipped his hands into hers, relaxing into the physical contact with once again.

"A dinner party, James. I cannot go to a formal dinner in rags. It is bad enough that your mother looks upon me like an ill-bred scullery maid, but if I am to meet the rest of your family…"

He slid his hands to brace behind her elbows, naturally pulling her closer to silence her protest, "Stop. We will go immediately after lunch to Monsieur Grégoire's and get you something for tonight. As for my mother, she has been a long time friend of the Moores, but she is still my mother, and she might protest, but ultimately, she will respect my decision."

______________

"Move that one in the back, Claudette. It looks like a peacock mated with a chicken."

Grégoire's high sing-song voice shrilled over the dainty ringing of the bell over the door as they entered the richly appointed seamster's shop. Its high vaulted ceilings held in place by a set of ogives and its double-crossing arches above long bolts of material lined neatly in rows. 

"Monsieur Halpert! I had heard the news that you were returning from that dreadful fight from Mademoiselle Larissa just last week; however, my dreams never imagined you here in my salon so soon."

Grégoire heartily embraced James giving the traditional three kiss _la bise_ , which if he was honest, he had never gotten accustomed to. The excitable Frenchman turned his attention quickly to Pam, who stood slightly behind him, taking in the exchange with amusement.

"Who is the madonna, James, that you bring into my shop?"

"May I introduce my wife, Pamela." 

Grégoire moved slowly over to her taking her hand and placing a delicate kiss on the top of it as he spoke.

"Madame Halpert spoke nothing about matrimony, James. What a delightful surprise."

He was not the least bit surprised by his mother's omission of that fact. He imagined the shame of it was only revealed reluctantly and under duress.

He wrapped both hands around hers, "I am at your service, Madame."

"Grégoire, my mother is hosting a dinner tonight in our honor, but my wife does not have a suitable wardrobe. Unfortunately, hers was ruined in a fire shortly before we left."

He gasped in response, "That will not do, Madame. Come, my ladies will help you find something that will have you looking as radiant as the fine jewel that you are. Celeste, Margot!"

With a snap of his fingers, she was ushered into the waiting seamstresses' arms and turned to him with a look of humorous concern as she disappeared behind the heavy purple velvet curtains.

"I leave her in your capable hands, Monsieur Grégoire. Tell her I will send the driver back to fetch her and take her home, I have a few more places in need to visit."

"I will return her elated, Monsieur, and place the bill on your account. For your convenience, of course." Grégoire bowed graciously. 

He pulled the heavy oak and glass door open with a chuckle, "I have no doubt you will."

______________________

After several necessary stops, one being to his father's business, he returned right as the bell of the grandfather clock chimed six solemnly in the main hallway. He pushed the door open to their room to find it empty, but an orange hue came from the Ladies chamber. He followed the light to where she was, the mantle clock ticking in time with footsteps. She sat at the vanity, a variety of ivory and glass items spread out before her, the ever-mysterious beauty tools of a woman. She noticed him in the reflection and turned in her chair, her soft autumn curls falling down her back fashionably.

The dressmaker had come through and fitted Pam in a lovely black satin dinner dress, with rebellious strips of grey along the edges, and the ends of a grey ribbon tie pulled together at the base of her back where the bodice met her skirts. A bodice, he noticed intently, that fit like a glove, and as she rose from her chair and stood before him, a low neckline that showed off the creaminess of her bare shoulders and tops of her breasts.

"I shouldn't think I should let you out of the house looking like that."

Her expression fell along with her face as she swiped her hands down the silk fabric.

"Does it look dreadful? I was afraid it was too fashionable for my taste."

His voice dropped, and he shook his head in admiration as he took a step closer, "No, not in the slightest. You are so incredibly beautiful."

She flushed slightly at his breathy confession, turning towards the fireplace to hide her smile.

"You may think so, but what really matters is your family's opinion on the matter."

"I find myself not caring as much about what they think anymore…especially when it comes to you." He mulled pensively, biting the inside of his cheek in thought.

"James, they are your blood. Of course, you should care."

He watched as several expressions washed over her features before the only answer that came to his mind crossed his traitorous lips.

"You are my family now." 

_____________________

The din of empty conversation was coupled with the delicate clink of china and crystal as she sat next to him in the long dining hall of his childhood home. Dinners were very much like a theatrical production, and James and Pam knew their roles well. Polite society only filled dinner conversations with genteel topics, societal constraints leaving the more heated discussions to the brandy snifters and cigars that came later. He fumed at the way they all watched Pam suspiciously, making a note of any reason they could find on how she had somehow fooled him into marrying her. They would be civil, even friendly, to her tonight and pick her apart at tea the next day.

He noticed briefly that his brother's wife looked to be with child again as they were being seated. Not that he was supposed to notice such things. Society in Philadelphia were experts in not noticing things, the same way gentleman didn't notice loose women on the street, or bodies found floating in the Delaware River or even the fact that housemaids had children that looked mysteriously like the masters of the house.

Bored, aristocratic faces lined the finely decorated table, and he felt as adrift as ever, pretending to listen to some foreign dignitary he had already forgotten the name of. Not a single one of these people knew him now, aside from the one sitting next to him. She must have sensed his disquiet for she bushed the edge of her hand purposefully against his under the shelter of the table cloth. He cut his eyes quickly in her direction to find her already looking at him, and she imperceptibly drew up the corners of her lips in reply. He felt the rising tension drain instantly from his body, and it was replaced with warm contentment. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel alone in a room full of people.

"She is lovely, James."

Peter Halpert had moved up beside him silently, his line of sight studying the women sitting stiffly in the chairs on the other side of the room. The party had moved to the parlor in a well-choreographed dance that found him now holding a crystal snifter and listening absently to the politicking happening around him.

"Thank you, brother. Am I to assume congratulations are in order for you again?" He took a sip as he watched Pam nervously push an errant curl back across her shoulder.

"You would assume correctly. We have not formally announced it, of course. I am fearful, however, she barely survived the last one."

He turned to meet his gaze and saw genuine concern written in the hazel eyes that stared back at him.

"How have you been? It feels like an eternity since we have sat and talked at length. You shocked us all with your cryptic telegram that sent mother into a frenzy."

James shuffled slightly, his unused hand searching for the edge of the pocket in his stiff dress pants. "That was not my intent. I never meant to meet her; it just happened."

"Father and Thomas just assumed it was some poor girl you had been careless with, but I see now that they were wrong. Why, though, James? You had to know it would upset the family."

"She is more than just _some girl_ , Peter. She's funny and warm and…," he shook off his train of thought, "I would appreciate it everyone would respect my decision, it is my marriage after all." 

Peter was quiet for a moment before continuing carefully, "I do not care who you choose to marry and have bear your children, James. I am warning you, Father, on the other hand, was less than pleased that you married for love like a commoner. Senator Halpert's youngest son was all the talk around here for several days."

James shook his head with a huff and roll of his eyes in such an undignified way that it drew the attention of the two men talking near them.

Peter turned to him, blocking off the prying eyes of those around them. "Listen, I am happy for you, truly."

"How is Thomas? Larissa said he has been troubled." He was anxious to steer the conversation away from Pam.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and his voice had dropped lower when he spoke again.

"I'm afraid he came home from the war a changed man, and not for the better. I rarely see him without a drink in his hand, and his shipping business is not doing well, so I hear. He will not speak to me on it, but perhaps he will with you." Peter downed the rest of his drink and replaced it with a new one from the passing tray.

The evening ended without drama and favorably early, but he could tell her self-possession was waining by the time he lifted her into the carriage and banged sharply on the roof to alert the driver.

"I hope the evening was not too unpleasant." He strained to see her features in the dim light streaking in from the streetlights as she sat across from him.

"No, I quite enjoyed meeting your sister. She actually spoke to me, not at me."

"Well, be careful, if she likes you she might invite you to one of her suffrage meetings she always goes to."

"Oh, she already did."

He shook his head with a chuckle.

"I told her that you might be displeased if your wife attended such an event, and she told me that you had once joined her at one of these meetings. James Halpert, I never took you to be a suffragette." Even in the carriage's obscure lighting, he could detect the humor in her voice, and he smiled in spite of himself.

"Well, it was only because our driver was ill, and there was no one to escort her there safely."

He heard her hum her skepticism, and he grinned again.

"I trust it was good seeing your family again?"

He murmured noncommittally, and there was the heavy rocking of the carriage, signaling the end of their brief journey home. The driver opened the door, and James stepped out quickly to help her down.

"Remind me to tell you later about the foreman my father hired while I was away. I met him today when I stopped by the offices. He is quite something else. Schrute is his name, I believe."

___________________

Many things had changed in James's existence since he had returned, one of which being his nightly routine. Life of a bachelor often found him face down on his bed with only his boots removed, now, however, with Pam sleeping soundly in his bed, he was compelled to secure the entire house each night. After the last servant left at night, he made the rounds, fastening the shutters, bolting the outer doors, and banking any remaining fires. This evening he stopped in the library, the last remaining fire in the house, and instead of smothering it, he stared into the flames, the judgmental words of his brothers and mother replaying in his head, pounding like a drum. He reached for the crystal decanter he knew still existed on the far shelf and poured himself a generous glass, ambling over to the piano bench that sat askew near him.

He didn't know how long he had sat there staring into the fire when she came looking for him, but it was long enough that the whiskey now swirled warm in his limbs.

"Why haven't you come to bed?"

When he didn't reply, she leaned against the keyboard's frame, her arms crossed as she studied him.

"Tell me," was all she whispered, and he looked up at her in wonder. What sort of witchcraft enabled this woman to read his mind so easily.

"My brothers…my mother." He struggled to finish, his mind dull and his tongue heavy, but when he looked back up into her face, he knew she understood regardless.

She reached out to stroke his hair, and he leaned into her touch.

"I'm sorry I was drinking. I know it is upsetting to you, but I did not realize you would be awake." She shook her head wordlessly and passed her fingers through his hair again, dragging her palm down his day-old stubble. Her silk dressing gown was ill-fitting and had slipped off her shoulder and her amber curls fell recklessly around her as she looked down at him and he longed to lose himself, to be burned by the flames of her once again.

He reached over, dragging her until she was in front of him, the keys playing a discordant melody as her body moved across them. Sliding his hands up the curves of her, he pushed off her robe, letting it fall behind her, a lilac-colored drape across the cover of the piano; the thin gossamer, cotton chemise barely concealing the ivory landscape beneath it. He braced her hips with his hands, the largeness of them nearly spanning the narrow width of her and pressed an open-mouth kiss into the soft curve of her belly directly in front of him.

She moved in the direction of the stairs assuming they would make their way to the bed, but instead, he nudged her knees apart as he stood, wrapping her legs around his waist and picking her up in one smooth motion. He walked slowly over to the nearby sofa with her wrapped deliciously around him, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. When the backs of his knees reached the sofa's edge, he sat down and placed her firmly in his lap.

"Here?"

"Here." He replied huskily, already beginning to deftly undo his trousers with one hand as the other pulled at the edge of her chemise, gathering it at her waist. She loosened the strings letting the top slide down her shoulders, revealing the rest of her to him. She leaned forward, her hips poised over his, and she hesitated, unsure of being the one in control. He smiled as he shifted, bringing his hands to her hips and guiding her, and bringing her down around him. She rocked against him experimentally, and he gasped, letting his head fall back on the plush sofa cushion. She rested her hands on his shoulders as he guided her hips, falling into a slow, natural rhythm. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to watch her, mesmerized as she rose and fell over him, her skin glistening from her exertion.

When he moved one of his hands up to her face, she opened her eyes at his touch, and what he saw there pushed him over the edge.

"God, I love you." He exhaled in a murmur, low and desperate.

She dropped her head to his shoulder, and her breath came hot against his skin as she redoubled her efforts. He focused on the pressure building inside, forcing it back as long as possible when he felt her clinch and tremble around him; her thighs gripping his hips urgently and her fingernails pressing into his skin with a quiet, low moan in his ear. His response was to let go with abandon and several deep thrusts later he followed her, losing himself entirely in the endless heat of her body.

They held each other for several minutes in the firelight, their damp skin cooling. When she pulled back glowing and sated, he realized that two long-standing curiosities had been satisfied: the mythical female orgasm and knowing when he was in love.


	8. Fearful Odds

Of all the wretched places in the city of Philadelphia, this was comparably worse.

Of course, the finely appointed parlor of the Moore Mansion was the picture of wealth in Philadelphia Society. Lush dark green walls surrounded him with rich colored fabrics and gold tassels holding back silk window treatments. Mahogany and crystal defined the space, but it might have well had been a dilapidated old barn for as comfortable as he felt. What was once considered his future family home now felt like enemy territory, and the primary combatant would come through the palatial wooden doors at any moment. 

“James?” She feigned surprise, but she had, no doubt, been warned it was him by several servants already. 

She looked almost as exactly how he remembered her. Long and elegant form wrapped in flawless ivory skin, her green dress contrasting her copper curls piled on her head that always had reminded him of a sunset. She had not changed, but he had. He saw her through different eyes now, not the ones of a boy filled with the heady ideas of glory and war but ones that had weathered the storm of pain and destruction and had emerged altered. She no longer held him entranced under her femininity. Instead, his interests now lied entirely in his home across town and spoke with a melodic southern lilt.

“Katy. It is good to see you doing well.” 

“I had heard you were back in town now, going on two weeks. I have to say, I am surprised that you have not come to call earlier.”

“I do regret that. I only come by today to offer my apologies for how everything transpired. I was never my intent to have the news delivered in such a way and to insult you. It all happened rather suddenly.” 

“Oh yes, it was quite humiliating to have news of my broken engagement delivered by my mother of all people. You know how she can be.”

“I regret that.”

“So you said. James, I appreciate that circumstances are not ideal, that things…happen, while at war, but to bring this southern trollop back to your home?”

“She is not a trollop,” he shifted tensely. 

“What would you call a woman deluding a man into marrying her against his wishes? I have heard of these desperate, downtrodden women throwing themselves at our men.”

“Katy, that was not the way of it. It was my idea, not hers.”

Her demeanor shifted noticeably, and she glanced out the window at the gardener trimming flowers for the evening’s table setting.

“Larissa has kept me informed of your whereabouts as she received them. It was very kind of her since your letters were scarce.”

He began to interject, but she stopped him with the slight lift of her hand, “I understand it must be difficult to find time to write on the battlefield.”

His mind drifted unwillingly to the thought that he could not imagine not sharing every detail of his day with Pam, that letters to her would have been frequent and lengthy; that hearing her thoughts and opinions on matters now bore more importance than anyone else’s. 

She stepped towards him cautiously, the soft whisper of her skirts filling in the tense silence. “Do you remember that afternoon about a week before you left, when we took a walk in the garden?”

“Yes.” He remembered it well. The liberties they had taken with one another behind the azaleas would have likely gotten him shot by any one of her male relatives and had remained a constant companion in his mind for many months after. 

“You had several ideas then about what we would do when you returned.” She smiled seductively at the memory and was dangerously close now, the lavender she always wore surrounding him. She ran her finger down the lapel of his coat delicately before looking up at him in a way that used to drive him mad and he felt the fingers of her other hand dance across his waistcoat in a way entirely inappropriate for an unmarried woman to do.

“You were happy then. You don’t seem very happy now...with her.”

He took a step away and she frowned. “I only seem unhappy because I have hurt you, and I never intended that. She makes me very happy and I’m sorry,” he hesitated, unsure of how to convey his firmness. “I’m sure you have suitors lining up for the opportunity to court you.” 

“None as prominent and charming as you. My younger sister has married now, making me a less appealing prospect it seems.” 

His hand began its familiar tremor, and he quickly shoved it in his pants pocket to keep her from noticing. 

“Come now, James. Send her away and let us have a proper wedding. The envy of Philadelphia society. I’m sure your family will forgive your foolishness and my father might be convinced not to have you shot when he returns from New York.”

His voice dropped in seriousness, suddenly weary of the dance of pleasantries they had engaged in, “I will not send her away. I made a vow and I intend to keep it,” he stepped toward the open entryway, knowing his next words were unnecessarily cruel but the die had been cast, “She is my wife, in body and in name, and you need to accept that.” 

He felt the guilt drift through him like a breeze through a curtain at her bewildered expression. If he could go back and warn his youthful counterpart to never start down this path, he would have. She didn’t return his bid farewell and the gaining fall wind felt exceptionally bitter as he stepped out towards the waiting carriage. 

___________

He had never really had dinner in this house before he left for war. It was a pointless exercise in his mind, to have Eleanore prepare a meal only for him, and he often had just taken his meal at the small table in the kitchen, if he took it at all. 

Now with Pam, he looked forward to dinners in the dining room. Just the two of them, across a corner of the long oak table, enjoying Eleanore’s cooking and each other. He loved to hear her speak of the day and whatever topics entered her mind, her upper-class southern accent lilting as if she were making love to each word rather than just pronouncing it. 

“I went to see Katy today.” 

The motions of her fine silver fork paused noticeably. “Oh?”

“I needed to apologize. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me to break our engagement over telegram via third party.”

Her fork drifted back again to the roasted veal and root vegetables on her plate. “What did she say?”

“She was not pleased and refuses to see the reality of the situation, stubbornly living in the past. She handled it just as I imagined she would.”

He continued his meal, but he could sense the tense apprehension that suddenly filled the temper of the space. 

“What is the matter? Are you cross I went to see her?”

“No. No, it was the proper thing for you to do.” She wiped her mouth needlessly and returned the linen napkin back to the draped position on her lap. 

He shook his head slightly at her with a raised brow, encouraging her to continue. 

“I cannot pretend to be unconcerned that a woman you had such powerful feelings for remains devoted. I imagine she is beautiful and perfectly suited for you.”

He put his knife and fork down and reached for her hand, “ _You_ are perfectly suited for me. I was a child when I was with her; a young, foolish child, and she is well…she is inconsequential to me now. If anything, today’s meeting solidified that.”

She smiled delicately, winding her fingers through his in the way she did that felt far more significant than a simple gesture before returning to her meal, satisfied. 

___________

He pushed open the large doors of his foyer, bone-weary exhaustion covering like a lead blanket as he pulled at his necktie, the maid taking his coat wordlessly. Spending his day amongst reporters and giant presses was not nearly as grand as he had imagined as a boy. It was full of reporters writing copy, editors laying out pages, and telegraph operators scanning the tape from the Associated Press for the next big headline. His father had always told him gentleman owned businesses and did not run them, but James was not satisfied to just let it be a passing hobby now that it was his name on the door; however unwise his father was likely to see his endeavor. 

He just wanted dinner and his wife, in which order, he didn’t feel particular but instead of Pam, Larrisa glided into the room without preamble.

“Dear brother.”

“Lovely Sister,” he returned in equal tempo. “What brings you here so early in the evening? Did we have plans for you to join us at dinner tonight?” 

He glanced in her direction speculatively as he began sorting the stack of mail set out for him to inspect. Many of the letters and bills were of little importance and he made a mental note to remind Eleanore that as Pam ran the household now, all messages should go through her first, leaving only the relevant ones for his perusal. 

“James, it was quite a morning, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure you are going to delight me with the details of it.” He pushed several folded pieces aside, opening one that seemed of some consequence, skimming the elegantly formed letters quickly. 

“I adore your wife.” 

With that, he looked up from his reading. He knew his sister well, and he knew the tone her voice took on when she was excited. “What happened?”

“Well, as you know, mother has been actively avoiding the Moores for fear of any unpleasant conversations and she hoped that they would have forgotten about Tuesday tea.”

A maid had slipped through quietly, checking to see if Larissa required anything and, no doubt, listen in on the gossip his sister always provided. 

She quietly dismissed her with a low, ‘No, thank you’ before continuing. “They did not, however.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh yes. It was quite an uncomfortable affair. Katy sniffed her out of the group like a dog on the hunt. You know how she can be. Well, she introduced herself to Pamela as _the woman whom you stole from_. It was scandalous.”

He set down the stack of letters he had been holding, “I need to go talk to her.”

“Wait, I haven’t yet gotten to the interesting part. Katy goes on and on about desperate Southerners begging for scraps from our table and Pamela just stands there taking it with class. Katy pushes harder saying something about our brave men having to bed cold, heartless wenches out of pity. You know how catty she can be. Everyone _knew_ she was talking about her, it was easily the most exciting thing that has happened at tea in years.”

He winced, all but feeling the painful awkwardness. He had no illusions it would be easy for her, but the idea of her being cornered by a scorned Katy was far from what he had imagined. “I’m going to find her.” 

“Wait, James.” Larissa was nearly giddy as she continued, her eyes bright as she lowered her voice in rapt anticipation of the climax of her story, “Pamela looks right at her, calm as can be, and says ‘ _I feel very sorry for you. Longing after something you will never, ever have._ ’ You could have heard a pin drop in that parlor, James. I thought Katy was going to slap her, honestly. Then Pam just calmly sets down her tea, thanks mother for the delightful time, and leaves. She just left, James! It was splendid.”

He paced several times in front of her frustratedly. He never sought to quarrel with his sister, but he approached that place quickly now, “This isn’t some entertainment or parlor card game, Larissa. She knows no one here. Her father just died, her only family is halfway across the country, and she agreed to marry me, God help her. I know that this has been difficult on the family, but she is my wife whether you like it or not.”

Her demeanor changed in an instant, softening to a calm seriousness. “On the contrary. I believe she is a wonderful match for you. She is not a girl that can easily be pressed and she will keep you challenged. Your perfect opposite, I imagine.”

____________

“Pam?”

“I’m in here, the light is better.” Her voice called from the end of the long hallway. He found her in the mostly empty room, the far wall banked by unused furniture covered in white canvas.

He exhaled in relief. She had not left town after the horrific events of the morning, and by some miracle, still seemed to want to speak to him. 

“You are drawing.”

She sat on a lonely chair near the window, several broken pieces of charcoal scattered at her feet. 

“I haven’t done this in quite some time but Eleanore said there were some chalks and charcoal in the drawer in the study so I borrowed them. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Pam, everything in this house is as much yours as mine. You needn’t ask for permission.” She looked at him with a soft smile and his soul took a deep, solidifying breath. 

“Larissa told me what happened at tea. I am so sorry. That must have been horrifying. I was hoping my meeting with her would have been the end of it.”

She stood, setting down her sketch and wiping her stained hands on the rag draped over the armrest with quiet determination, “It wasn’t pleasant and I’m afraid I may have damaged my future relations with your mother. Her face was ghastly when I left.” 

“Well, it serves her right. She knew the Moores would come and invited you anyway.”

“She is quite beautiful. You downplayed her loveliness, truly.” Her voice lowered as her eyes skittered across the polished hardwood floors. 

He took a hesitant step towards her. Her insecurities were equally endearing and frustrating to him. She was Camelot in a world of the ordinary. “There is no comparison in my mind. Please know that.”

A blush tinged her cheeks, and she shook her head shyly before continuing, “It had to happen eventually, I suppose. Am I to assume Larissa told you what I said?” Her flat palm pressed lightly against her bodice in dismay and he watched the last of the day’s sunlight falling through her hair. 

“Yes, well, Larissa’s version at any rate. I’m sure somewhere in there lies the actual truth.” 

“James,” she replied softly, and he loved the anchor and form his name took on when she spoke it, “you don’t think it too forward?”

He reached for her hand, wrapping her cool fingers in his, slight and pale set against his larger ones, “No, it was the truth. She will indeed never have what she seeks. Don’t worry, some strange foreigner or royalty will come into town next week and I will be forgotten.”

“I don’t think so.” 

______________

The Philadelphia Evening Sentinel had grown significantly through the war years and now occupied the entire building on the corner of 30th and Market; a handsome brick Federal-style building that sat apart from the rest. The lobby faced the busy Market street and James’s and the other offices off to either side with the loading docks at the rear. The expansive square footage they had gained allowed for the reporters to occupy the entirety of the second floor, leaving the typesetters and presses on the third. 

There were many open positions to be filled, he had discovered on his return. Whispered names of battles as explanations for the empty desks scattered around the building and potential replacements had filtered into the office for days. 

Oscar was one of his father’s trusted employees. The long-standing senior editor was known for settling Gerald Halpert’s explosive temper and was smart as a tack. James depended on him heavily in learning the daily operations of a business that printed the quarter-million papers that went out into the city each afternoon, six days a week.

“Oscar, what was that metal contraption I saw next to the side door on the way in?” 

“It is a velocipede, and it is the latest from Paris in individual transport.” Mr. Schrute answered from behind the large stack of newsprint that sat at the edge of the room, his red bowtie contrasting the black ink on his fingers from the presses. 

“You ride it? Like a horse?” James smirked at the awkward foreman, amused.

“It is far better than any horse. You must —“

“So the rumors are true.”

The sound of a familiar voice had him turn toward the doorway, slowly searching its origin in the distant places of his memories. 

Markus greeted him with a smile and an amiable handshake, communicating the emotions of lifelong friends having been altered by experiences larger than the sum of their years. They stood there examining each other warmly in the mid-morning light spilling in from the industrial windows: their stature and appearance as similar as their upbringing. They had shared the incommunicable experience of war, and what remained needed to be filled again with the long-standing cadence of their friendship.

“How are you?” 

“I am very grateful to be home. When did you get back?”

“Several months now. I heard the inconceivable news that you have a wife, from North Carolina of all places. Tell me I was misinformed.” His wry smirk was a familiar flavor James hadn’t realized he missed. 

“I indeed have a wife now,” he answered with a smile. “You should come to dinner tonight and meet her. We have far too many things to catch up on.” They didn’t, really. There were only so many ways to convey four years of carnage between two men that would rather forget. “What about you? Have you finally fooled a woman into your bed?”

“Oh, many have been fooled, but none willing to put up with me for very long.” 

They both moved wordlessly into his office, away from the prying ears of the workers and writers that had all mysteriously drifted into the same area.

“I thought you were set on marrying the Moore girl. As I recall, you were quite taken with her. What the hell happened in North Carolina…why were you even in North Carolina?”

James slipped into the chair behind his desk with its ever-impressive stacks of clutter that had accumulated in the interim between his father’s time and his arrival. 

“That is a tale for a different occasion and as for Katy Moore,” he shrugged noncommittally, “four years is a long time.” 

Markus chuckled slightly, “I am sure your father was elated after how hard he pressed that merger. Have you seen him yet?”

“No, he’s still in Washington until next week.”

“Let me know when you expect him back. I want to be your second when he draws pistols.”

The door opened briskly, and Oscar appeared in the resulting space. “Pardon me, James. I thought you might want to see this right away: the early edition of the Daily Star.”

He handed James the freshly printed publication, the paper still crisp, and the ink deep black. The headline shouted in bold, serif print ‘ _Penn Senator Halpert Backs Freedman’s Bureau Extension’_.

Markus leaned nearer to read over his shoulder. “It looks like the election mud-slinging is beginning early. Isn’t Charles Moore running this time?”

“He is,” James handed back the paper blindly in contemplation. 

“Edward Warren owns the Star now,” Oscar supplied quietly.

“Edward is—” Markus began.

Jim finished his thought, “Katy’s brother-in-law.”

Markus huffed out a laugh, “Your father will _love_ to hear how the spurned Moores are planning to take his Senate seat. Remind me again when he is returning from Washington?” 

James looked at him with a shake of his head in disbelief, his outward bemusement concealing the undercurrent of concern swirling in his mind. 

“I am officially rescinding that dinner invitation.”

______________

When he arrived home for lunch, the house was unusually quiet. He had entered through the back door after walking home and stopping by the stables to check on Sergeant, promising the sleek, ebony horse a ride soon. He hadn’t expected anyone to greet him in his unusual entry, but he also didn’t expect to not encounter anyone until he reached the kitchen. 

As he opened the door between the pass-through butler pantry and the kitchen, he found Pam sitting at the table near the cookstove with Eleanore, warm tea in hand. 

Eleanore slapped the table in exclamation as he entered, “James! You did not tell me you would be home for lunch. I would have prepared.” 

“Don’t bother. I am only home to escape the insufferable foreman and see my wife.” He pressed a small kiss to Pam’s soft temple and joined them at the wooden table. She grinned invitingly at him, her jade eyes sparkling, and reached for his hand under the table, warming him in a way nothing else ever would. 

“Your lovely girl was just telling me of her family in this North Carolina where she comes from. Such a frontier this place is, ja?”

“It is not terribly rustic,” Pam’s voice laced in humor, “we have lanterned streets and are known to use eating utensils on occasion.” 

Their laughter filled the small space and his soul as Eleanore moved on to supervise the household readiness for the afternoon, and they moved upstairs under the pretense of fetching a document he needed from his writing desk. In truth, he just wanted to be alone with her before returning to work.

He moved in behind her, kissing the exposed portion on the back of her neck as they crossed the threshold to their room. 

“You fool no one, James, least of all me.” She murmured lightly. 

“I wasn’t trying to fool you. You are very intelligent and I am not a boy.” His voice sounded rough, even to his own ears. 

She turned to face him, her eyes heavy as she placed a delicate hand against his lapel, breathing sharply. “I would never accuse you of being a boy, husband of mine.”

He smirked at her thinly veiled compliment on the condition and virility of his anatomy. He kissed her cheek, then turned her face so he could kiss her lips carefully. 

She dropped her chin slightly, separating them just enough for her to speak. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Oh, no.” He grinned, chasing her mouth like a moth to a flame, unsuccessfully finding only her apprehensive, muted chuckle as she stepped away from him; the climate in the room shifting noticeably. 

“Did you mean what you said the other night? Or was it just because…,” the blush on her fair cheeks deepened visibly, “I just mean, my Aunt once told me men will say anything when they are…”

“I meant it.” The way she stood across the room from him, nervous, shy energy rolling off her, he could not have meant it more. 

She exhaled a smile, relief clear as her shoulders sagged a bit and she looked down. 

“And I still mean it. Here. Now. With all our clothes on.”

She smiled again, her expression shifting to something far more serious, as she took several small steps in his direction. 

“I was afraid you would think me a naïve, foolish woman if I had agreed with you so readily. I was uncertain.”

“Agreed with me?” 

She looked at him with the determination of someone with nothing to lose standing at the edge of an abyss, momentum already pressing forward. 

“I love you, James.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m not sure exactly when it happened, probably on one of those terrible roads in Virginia, but all I know is that I woke up one day and it was a truth I could no more deny than the air in my lungs.” 

Something akin to a dam broke inside of him, deep and abiding, winding him seamlessly around her in a bind that only omnipotence could break. He closed the distance between them, his hands bracing her face as his lips seized hers. She exhaled and her mouth opened, offering its ever persuasive offer, its warmth enclosing him. She gripped his shirt unconsciously, pulling herself into him, and he smiled. 

He nuzzled his way down her neck to where her dress partially revealed shoulder, smooth under his lips, warm and scented beneath the rebellious curls that had fallen from her comb. “Say it again.”

He heard her hum her bemusement as his hand skimmed down the curve of her waist, finding its resting place on her hip in suspended desire. 

“I love you, James Halpert.” 

The words fell over him, covering him in a healing shroud. He partially restrained the groan of satisfaction that escaped him as his hand moved northward to her breast contained frustratingly in silk and cotton, and he felt her pull away slightly.

“James, we mustn’t do this. It is not nearly even evening time, and the house is full of people.” She barely sounded convinced of her own whispered protests as her hands twisted further in the fabric of his shirt and her lips grazed the side of his neck. 

His mind was so lost in her, the soft sighs and even softer skin beneath his hands, that he said the last rational thought he was capable of thinking, “The door has a lock.”

She looked up at him with a willing countenance that stirred something deep, unaware of the impact she had made on his lonely world; her eyes a shade of sage he might fall into the depths of and drown.

“Well, then I suppose we should lock it.” 

___________

The grey clouded sky held back the sun as it broke over the horizon; a flock of Starlings had begun their mesmerizing murmurations above the tops of the trees, an early morning show only for those woken enough to view it. 

Owning an evening paper meant the presses would not start up until noon, but he still rose early to listen to the city groan its awakening. Wagon wheels rolled over cobblestone, smoke rose from chimneys and dew glistened on leaves as the hum and rhythm of the city he called home drew him in once again. 

He shrugged his wool waistcoat vest over his shoulders and pressed the bone buttons through the holes in blind efficiency as he watched her sleep across the room, a small gathering of curly auburn hair amongst the billowing downy blankets. He would not wake her this morning despite the ever-present desire to be touching her, but instead, he pulled paper quietly from the writing desk near the window. 

He had no idea if she even enjoyed Shakespeare but as she shifted and sighed in the morning light, her bare leg escaping the confines of the bed linens, verses of a forgotten sonnet learned in his youth rolled through his mind like water seeking a path over stones in a creek bed. 

_‘In aeternum I was once determined, For to have loved and my mind affirmed, That with my heart it should be confirmed, Forthwith I found the thing that I might like, And sought with love to warm her heart alike, For as me thought I should not see the like, In aeternum.’_

He felt foolish having never written a woman a love letter, and butchering Shakespeare wasn’t a strong start. He nearly crumpled the entire thing before deciding a practical ending would salvage the humiliation of the beginning and perhaps keep her from laughing at him. 

_‘I did not want to wake you, but I must leave early for the paper. I will see you at noon. J.’_


	9. The Consolations of Philosophy

He probably shouldn't be here, the ornate decorations and bolts of fine pastel fabrics reminded him. 

He _should_ be managing the afternoon's printing or reading through the dozens of editorials stacked on his desk, but he found himself in the front room of Grégoire's shop, being the faithful escort for his wife and sister. Most husbands sent their wives alone or, at the very least, made their way to the exclusive club four blocks away for drinks and entertainment. Instead, he was here, sitting on the plush stuffed chair pretending to read the late edition of yesterday's paper. He would never admit it, perhaps even beleaguered and under the threat of certain death, that he enjoyed listening to the endless gossip in the dressmaker's shop and from where he was sitting, could just see Pam through the heavy velvet curtains. The sliver of visible space between the deep red drapes revealed his wife trying on various gowns and dresses atop a wooden box in front of a wall of mirrors. Only it was the newspaper that held his attention, naturally.

"Do you think he will marry her, Mademoiselle? Surely he will know of her _troubles_." Grégoire swirled around the seamstress like a buzzing bee. James could see him passing back and forth in front of the opening. 

"I do not know, Grégoire, but that man has sent three maids out of his employ, one as recently as last spring and yet no one seems to question his worthiness." Larrisa's firm voice clearly heard from somewhere behind the curtains.

"A good maid would not allow herself to get in such an unfortunate position, non?" He replied briskly.

"Circumstances are not always in her control, Grégoire, you of all people should know that." Larissa added low and hushed before returning to her original volume, "One would question why a bachelor would be in need of so many female servants in the first place. My brother has only had a head housekeeper and groundskeeper since purchasing his home. There are only a few maids and stable hands and none of them sleep there, not even a lady's maid, now that he has a wife."

"You do not have a lady's maid yet, Madonna?" He asked, concerned.

Pam turned to face him, the full skirts of the gown she wore spinning slightly, "No, I haven't yet required one honestly."

"Nonsense, Pamela, even I have a lady's maid and I do not even run a household like you do."

"I would not even know where, or how, to begin to find a suitable one." Her voice soft and unsure.

"I might have a solution, Madame, excuse me."

Appearing out of nowhere, Grégoire was suddenly in front of him, "Monsieur, your lovely bride tells me she is still in need of a suitable maid to assist her. Is this true?"

James felt somewhat guilty. They had been in Philadelphia for several weeks now and with all the distractions, the task of procuring her someone had been neglected.

He folded his barely read paper neatly at his side, abandoning its pretense, "Yes, we have not yet begun looking."

"If you will allow, Monsieur, I may have a solution. My niece has arrived from France several weeks ago and is in need of employment." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, "She was employed by a Baronesse in France that unfortunately did not survive the birth of the young Beauchamp and the Baron sent her away in grief."

"That's terribly tragic," James glanced at Pam as she turned slightly, looking over her shoulder to admire the details on a dark blue gown in her reflection.

"She was heartbroken indeed. Would you find it agreeable to interview her?"

He gestured with a lift of his chin in Pam's direction, "Whatever she wants. It's her decision and she will be the one doing the interview."

Grégoire bowed slightly as he retreated excitedly, "Of course, Monsieur. You are most generous. I will find a suitable time for Madame and send her."

________________

"James! You know I did not know you were home. I would have sent your usual coffee to your study." Eleanore always seemed to admonish James when he entered the back of the house, and it continually amused him.

"Good afternoon, Eleanore, ladies," he acknowledged the other servants in the room with a slight nod. "Don't bother yourself on my account, please."

He turned to the unfamiliar face, knowing instantly it was Grégoire's niece, "You must be Julienne."

She curtsied slightly, "I am, Monsieur."

"I was just showing Julienne where everything is located. The Mistress requested she begin as soon as possible as to help her prepare for the dinner at the Halpert mansion tomorrow evening."

James nodded in approval as he poured himself a large cup of the boiling coffee on the stovetop, "Ah, yes. The dinner."

"Master Halpert, is there any instruction for me, Sir?" She was pretty, but not overtly. Her large chestnut eyes looked up at him genuinely with her dark brown hair pinned loosely up and away from her face. He thought she looked to be only marginally older than Pam, which he guessed might be a good thing, although admittedly he had no idea what a lady looked for in such a personal servant. All he knew was that the long-standing lady's maid employed by his mother hardly left her side and seemed to be her confidant, as much as one would for a woman like her, anyway.

"The one thing I request is that you refrain from using titles for me. Pam and Eleanore only let me think I am the master of this house, I assure you."

"Oof, that is not true, _mein Liebling,_ " Eleanore added with a small embarrassed laugh.

"All I ask is that you meet her every need. She is ...very important to me and I want to see her happy." He leaned casually against the edge of the large cooking surface behind him, blowing over his cup to cool it.

"From what I can see already, Monsieur, you make her very happy indeed."

Her frank implications slightly startled him, and he only smirked at her in response. He could see why Pam had liked her.

"Julienne!" Eleanor nearly shrieked, mortified, "You do not speak about things you should not! You have many things to learn about this house, dear."

"It's fine, Eleanore." He waved off her indignant response.

Julienne, however, seemed unfazed, "My apologies, Sir. I shall go see if the Mistress requires anything." With another small curtsy, she excused herself and he could see Eleanore was about to burst with commentary.

"Does Pam seem to like her and where is my wife, for that matter?"

"She was in her study, writing letters when I saw her last. The Mistress seemed pleased. The girl has a bit of a loose tongue for my taste, but perhaps it is because she is French." She barely contained the disdain in her voice.

"What do you mean, loose tongue?"

"She is far too casual, but the Mistress found her humorous, I could see it." She bustled around the kitchen as she spoke, placing a basket of vegetables in front of a young maid, and wordlessly motioned for her to begin to prepare them.

"Pam will prefer casual, as long as she can fulfill her duties. She will live in the servant's wing, I imagine?"

She nodded affirmatively, and he took a sip of the hot coffee, steam drifting warmly around his face, satisfied the task had been completed. He was nearly set to return to his study when he noticed a troubled look in Eleanore's expression. 

"Something bothers you?"

She looked at him, wiping her hands nervously in her white apron, "I dislike a stranger in this house."

"Pam was a stranger, and you welcomed her."

"Pam was not a stranger. You love her, _mein Junge_ , that was all I needed to know about her."

______________

It was early, that he knew. The beginnings of the house coming to life could be heard below, and a faint light through the window spilled over every surface. The heavy, rich fabric that hung from the canopy bed frame closed in around them like a shroud and he longed to hide there, no one else in the entire world he cared to see but her.

His father came home today, and he had hoped to continue forever in the blissful avoidance brought on by circumstances, but the time had come to face his disapproving glares. He knew he would have to rise soon, a long day stretched before him, but for the next few minutes, he would enjoy one of the indulgences of a married man.

She rolled towards him, facing him fully in her sleep as if his thoughts had willed it, and he slid his hand under the sheets seeking her skin. He was endlessly thankful that his wife seemed to toss away the conventions of what was considered proper for a lady, and often slept in his bed without so much as a stitch of clothing, not bothering to slip on a nightgown after their lovemaking. In her natural state, as she was now, she was infinitely soft. His hand found what it sought and slid around her smooth backside pulling her lower half closer to his and she stirred awake slowly, much the same way his own body was.

"Mmm, it's early," she murmured, turning her face into the cotton of her pillow.

"It is, my love," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on the crest of her shoulder, "This is just a fevered dream. Go back to sleep."

He saw the corner of her mouth lift in a small, knowing smile as he pulled her top leg over his hip, aligning their bodies perfectly. He heard her breath intake sharply as he sank into her fully, savoring the depthless warmth of her that caused him to ache in every way, that he seemed to want to return to at every available opportunity. The rhythm he set, ancient and leisurely, promised to hypnotize them both when he heard the unmistakable footsteps of someone coming determinedly down the long hallway to toward their room. He tried to focus on the little mewling sounds she made with each thrust and the downy softness of the skin under his mouth as the footsteps continued closer. The servants knew not to disturb him before he came down for breakfast, and certainly not when his bedroom door was locked and that fact alone caused him cautious alarm. He stopped his motions, and she opened her eyes to look at him to see what was wrong.

"Someone is outside our door," he whispered as he pulled away from her, quickly grabbing his trousers and the pistol in his nightstand and moving in the direction of the intruder.

He blindly pulled back the hammer slowly to minimize the small click and his other hand turned the key of the lock silently. In one smooth motion, he whipped the door open and raised his weapon, only to immediately drop it when he saw a nervous Eleanore.

"Eleanore! What the devil are you doing? I might have shot you!"

"I'm so sorry, Sir! I know you wish to not be bothered when you are in your bed chamber but it..." she hesitated and he could swear the well-seasoned housekeeper was shaking.

"What is it?"

"It's your father. He is downstairs and wishes to see you immediately."

"My father? Is here?" His mind raced with questions.

"Yes, Sir. Forgive me."

He heard Pam stir behind him, the quiet sounds of cotton and silk moving.

"Mistress, my apologies," Eleanore lifted her voice and added as she looked past him to her and it brought him out of his own thoughts and back into the present.

He softened his concerned expression at her worry, "Eleanore please do not fret, all is fine. Tell him I will be down in just a moment. Will you prepare breakfast as normal and send Julienne up for Pam?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I much prefer it when you call me _mein Liebling._ "

She exhaled with a slight dip of her head and a smile as she hurried back down the hallway.

He shut the door again behind him and she watched him dress from her place on the edge of the bed; the sheet wrapped around her.

"Would you like me to join you?" She asked quietly, and he could sense her uncertainty at this unknown element of his family dynamic.

"No, let me face his ire alone. You will meet him at dinner tonight soon enough. Although he will likely suspect I'm hiding you away to conceal evidence." He tucked his shirt into his pants quickly.

"Evidence of what?"

He paused to look at her, her hair unruly around her sleepy demeanor, and smiled at her innocence that sometimes took him by surprise.

"That you are with child already and that is the true reason we were married hastily."

Her brows furrowed, "But I am not, and we have only been married weeks--" He stopped her with his lips on hers, a deep inhaling kiss that he hoped would fill him with what he needed to face what waited for him in the parlor.

When he pulled back, he could see the dozens of questions written behind her eyes, "I know how my father thinks. I will tell you all about it later, I promise you."

His hand slid down her arm and grasped her hand between his in reassurance. "I love you," he whispered, and with a quick kiss to her fingers, leaving her to face his inevitability.

As he entered the front parlor, Gerald Halpert was looking out the window at the side gardens, standing will all the authority he encompassed, and he took a few seconds to study him unnoticed. Four years had aged him considerably, his trimmed gray beard framing his aristocratic features, and his expensive suit fitting his slightly heavier frame as only a well-tailored one would.

"Father?"

At the question, he looked at him and the two men stood frozen in mutual consideration for a flicker of a moment.

"It does my heart well to see you, my son. I consider myself one of the fortunate few that all three of my sons have returned from the battlefield alive."

"I didn't realize you were home from Washington. I expected to see you at dinner tonight."

"I took the late train last night immediately after the last session and came here directly. I surmised you might already be leaving for the office and that I could catch you before you left." His eyes ran down his hastily dressed appearance.

James gestured slightly upstairs, "I was just beginning to get ready and-"

Gerald pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open, "It's nearly quarter to seven," he snapped it shut again and returned it to its pocket, "be careful your _marital duties,"_ he drew the words out with faint disgust _,_ "do not make you sluggish. Eleanore nearly refused to trouble you, claiming your door was locked as the reason, even though it was your father calling. What sort of house do you run here, James?"

It was masterful how one statement from him had reignited long-forgotten flames of guilt and fear of disappointment in James and made him feel twelve all over again. He opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but he continued undeterred.

"Which brings me to why I wanted to speak to you straight away. You have made a mess of things by breaking off your engagement with Miss Moore. Did you get this girl in trouble? If that's the case, things can be handled, you know," he stated matter-of-factly as if the responsibility of a woman with an unwanted child were as easily dismissed as an improperly prepared dish at dinner and it occurred to James that it very likely was. He was hard-pressed to know of any wealthy households in Philadelphia that did not have the rumored servant or daughter that "took ill" and was sent away to never be seen again.

He shook his head exasperated, fully expecting this line of questioning, "No father, she is not and I did nothing inappropriate to her."

"Then what could this union possibly offer that the other arrangement could not?" He pushed off the mantle where his hand had been resting frustratedly, "Did you even consider the ramifications of all this? Christ, James, if you needed to dip your wick into something there are dozens of whorehouses between the Carolinas and here."

He huffed out an incredulous sound as his eyes floated heavenward before refocusing on his Father and stepping forward, "That was not the reason. I wanted to marry her and not Miss Moore. It's rather simple, really, despite how everyone is trying to make it seem."

"Good God, you love the girl," he stated, horrified at the terrible revelation.

James threw his hands up slightly with a frustrated sigh and turned away again.

"I spent a very long time crafting this alliance. It is important to keep the Moores on our side, and this was the only way given Charles's somewhat nasty inclination to want to play chess with his power and influence. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you know how precarious all this is and how important a role you play."

He lowered his voice in patronizing empathy, "James, I don't pretend to know the affairs of the heart, but you must use your head about this. It is not too late to reverse the damage done here. Send this poor girl home to her family, beseech forgiveness of Miss Moore for your indiscretion, and go about this the way it was intended. Many men have come home from the war with _mistakes,_ and I am certain they will overlook this as a misguided choice made in the fog of war."

James stared at him in disbelief. The twelve-year-old boy that once looked in awe and reverence upon the man in front of him was now long gone, replaced by someone who had experienced far too much to still maintain that opinion. The glistening pedestal he had once placed his father on now seemed tarnished and damaged. He felt a part of his youth surrender itself; tolling in his head like Donne's bell.

"I will not," he turned squarely to face him, despite the thundering of his chest. "I took a vow, and in case you have forgotten, or Washington politics has indeed changed the constitution of your character, you have raised us to commit to vows with honor, Father. She is the one I have chosen and if you had even a scrap of respect for me, you would accept that. Find another path to shore up things with the Moores. This matter is finished. I do not want to hear it suggested again that I send her away. She is my wife and she will remain my wife."

He exhaled tremulously at the bewildered expression on the family patriarch's face, "Now if you will excuse me, I have a paper to run. I will see you at dinner tonight, Father."

_____________

He saw her, out of his peripheral vision, pause at the door of the library at his unexpected presence, "Are you not going to work today?"

"I have already returned. I only went to retrieve some things, but I wish to work from home today."

She began in measured steps in his direction, thoughtfully, "Are you afraid your father might make an appearance there then?"

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" he smiled and inclined his head at her, "Yes, I wish to avoid that particular unpleasantness a little longer."

The groundskeeper had been diligently working to paint the foyer and front hallways all morning, the resulting heavy canvas covers and misplaced furniture scattered about. He moved the ladder further into the foyer with a loud clamor that drew their attention.

"What color did you choose?"

"A pale shade of yellow, more of an ochre really. That hallway was much too dreary."

He smiled warmly at her, secretly enjoying the effects a woman's touch was having to his home and thankful she seemed to be embracing her new life with him.

The groundskeeper's grip slipped and the heavy wooden ladder slammed to the marble floor with a loud crack; everyone jumping in surprise at the noise. The sound echoed in his mind, a reverberation that coursed adrenaline through his veins. He was suddenly there again, a grass field painted in red with gray-clad splotches and terrible, horrible sounds of suffering filling his ears; bitter gunpowder stinging his nose. He saw him a few yards away. A boy, no more than ten and four, crying trembling apologies to the ghost of his mother who was not there, but he looked upon as if she was; clutching desperately what was left of his abdomen.

"James?" her concerned voice brought him back to his study as the bloody battlefield faded from around him like mist.

"James, you are shaking. What is wrong?"

He inhaled deeply, breathing in her and the safety of their home. "It is nothing; the sound only startled me."

She studied him, he could feel her gaze as he reached to retrieve the papers that had spilled from the table at the disruption and he cursed the embarrassing tremors of his hands. He hastily set right the inkwell that had tipped, spilling a trickle of black across a letter.

"Tell me." Her voice was soft and smooth and unreasonably comforting to him. He let it wash over him as his drumming heart slowed.

When he didn't respond, she reached for his unsteady hand and put it between her own and pressed it to her chest; he felt it still under the persistent pressure of her affection.

"You won't tell me what happened?" She asked again, her voice impossibly lower.

He looked up at her, her worried brow and somber expression urged him to supply some sort of explanation. "I find it hard to put into words what I sometimes see, what sometimes haunts my sleep, only that I would never want you to endure such horror."

"Perhaps, you should let me choose whether I would bear that burden with you."

He slipped his hand from her grip and stood, his composure reasonably returned, "What kind of husband would I be if I did that?"

She frowned slightly at his attempt at levity but acquiesced, allowing the subject to drop.

_____________

"Do you think this dress suitable or should I have gone with something more formal?" she asked nervously as the carriage passed the wrought-iron and stone gate of the rather large front gardens.

"Pam, you are beguiling," he answered her honestly. "I am incredibly fortunate and proud you are on my arm tonight and not another. Although I know my opinion means very little under the circumstances."

The carriage rolled to a stop as she looked at him fiercely, "Your opinion is the only one I find myself caring about, James. I only do not wish to create you any more hardship than marriage to me seems to already have caused."

He put his hand on the carriage door, preparing to open it when he stopped thoughtfully, "Others may create difficulties for us because of our union, but the decision to marry you was the easiest one I have ever made."

For the second time, they arrived for dinner at the Halpert mansion. A much different affair than the previous visit; far less formal, but no less without its loud undercurrent of things left unspoken. His father was cool but speculative in his reception of Pam but to James's relief, undramatic; which was the very least he had hoped for after the morning's conversation.

However, with the sudden presence of his sister next to him, it would surely prove to be an entertaining evening.

"Did you get my editorial?"

He looked at her quizzically before the realization made itself known in his mind, "I thought I recognized that penmanship.'

"Well, I cannot exactly write it under my own name, dear Brother, you know that. Besides, none of the papers will print anything from a woman that is not about fashion or floral arrangements. Surely, our limited minds cannot grasp anything beyond the superficial niceties and the male gaze would not dream of allowing otherwise."

"You know I do not hold that opinion, so don't bring your anger at me."

"Yes, but will you print it?"

"I have not shied away from controversial topics in the editorial column so long as the arguments are intelligent, well-stated, and logical. There was one printed last week that was in support of a universal male suffrage amendment."

"Male being the key," she huffed as she pulled at the edge of her glove, "You know Pam is in agreement with me."

"You think the fact that my wife agrees with you would somehow sway me?" The look Larissa gave was vaguely sardonic, and it caused him to give up the smile that threatened. "You are right, it does."

"Do you think I am that transparent?" He asked quietly after a moment, hating the vulnerability in his voice. "You are not the first person to point that out."

"James, anyone who spends longer than five minutes with the two of you can see it. It is written all over you. To be honest, it is written all over the both of you, which is why her acceptance here has been so hard-fought."

His brows furrowed in confusion and she continued thoughtfully, "Men see it and resent her. She is rather unencumbered by the stiffness that seems to define women in society, and she clearly only has affections for you. Women see it and envy her. She has managed to secure what we dare not name: genuine love and adoration of a husband; far beyond the mere toleration most married women endure. I see it and it gives me hope, however. Perhaps I will not grow old as a spinster."

After a long moment of contemplation of her words, he added, "You are very insightful, Sister. You will find a suitable match and, God help the man, he will appreciate all the strong opinions that reside in that stubborn head of yours."

She looked at him affectionately before regaining her composure and gesturing across the room where Pam sat surrounded by the other Halpert women, "I should probably go save your wife from Cindy and Marcie before she leaves on the first train southbound."

Dinner was everything he remembered them to be growing up, safe topics and gentle sibling ribbing, never too much to upset the delicate balance of civility his mother fought hard to maintain. The courses passed without event, Betsy only mentioning once, and with uncharacteristic emotion, that she was so thankful to have all her children back at the table together.

"Are you enjoying Philadelphia, Pam?" Marcie asked slyly from her place across the table.

Pam nodded pleasantly, finally being spoken to. "It is lovely, particularly in these fall months."

"I imagine it quite different from the wilderness," Betsy added cooly as she sliced a roasted potato delicately in two.

"Pamela did not live in the wilderness, Mother." James returned defensively, "Asheville has many fine things and the mountains are tremendous."

He reached under the table and brushed his fingers against the hand in her lap, "Pamela is an accomplished artist, you should see her drawings."

Pam blushed furiously, "You are too generous, they are sketches really."

"I find art to be a fruitless waste of time, needlework, on the other hand, has many benefits," Cindy remarked unsolicited from the other end of the table.

"Eleanore just adores Pamela. You should hear her." Larrisa added helpfully, eyeing Cindy with annoyance.

Betsy changed her impassive expression instantly, "Oh, how is Eleanore? Please tell her we miss her. I can't say I am surprised that she chose to move her employ to your house, son, you were always her favorite."

"Well, it seems that favor might pass on to Pamela."

"Larissa, I hardly think--" Pam began, embarrassed

"Shall we all join in to sing Ms. Beesly's praises then?" Gerald spoke gruffly from the end of the long table, his rancor clear.

"Father," James growled and his one-word warning was enough to plunge the temper of the room into an uncomfortable silence; everyone but James and his father refusing eye contact, instead preferring to study the plates in front of them.

Betsy cleared her throat demurely, and he was reminded that if there was anything his mother disliked, it was an uncomfortable silence at the dinner table. "Shall we begin dessert? I understand the cook made a delightful lemon cheesecake and I, for one, am dying to sample it."

_________

His father's study had always been a rather grim and masculine room, an overbearing hand in its use of dark oak and mahogany trimming, as shelves lined an entire wall; an enormous stone fireplace, the focal point. As always after family dinners, men and women separated, and it was the first time in many years that he had shared cigars and drinks with his brothers and father.

"There has been a new disparaging article every day in the Star, and two on Sunday. Either Edward Warren has a new preoccupation with my voting record, or Charles is up to something." Gerald slapped the folded paper down on the cherry wood of the small table next to him.

"You think he is using Edward to cast doubt before the election?" Thomas asked as he leaned against the large formidable mantlepiece.

"I'm sure Charles is far more duplicitous than just typical election politics. There are a half a dozen property dealings at the shipyard tied up in Freedman's Bureau funding, particularly the construction of the Freedman's bank."

"That you voted to extend." Peter supplied after a long draw of his cigar.

"Charles is hoping that Philadelphia lives up to its history as a border city and finds support of such policies appalling." James looked up at him wryly. Politics and business were rarely separate issues, and the Moores were not known for keeping their views to themselves on either account.

"He has no reason to not take down anything impeding his expansion, including Father, especially now that..." Thomas let the unspoken words hang in the heavy air.

They all looked at James as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass uncomfortably under their gaze.

"Well, we all know where James now prefers to place his allegiances." Gerald sniffed in disapproval from the deep green high-back chair he sat in.

James glared at him at his statement and spoke in excruciatingly even tones, "I have printed several articles in support of you, Father, in recent days so it remains clear my allegiances have never faltered. Just because you do not approve of my-"

"There has been quite an upheaval taking place at the shipyards, I must confess," Thomas interjected quickly to refocus the conversation. "Owners are selling quite rapidly and there seems to be one buyer, " he continued as he pushed away from the fireplace, apparently too warm and, James noticed despite his anger, to fill his glass again.

"Charles Moore." Peter supplied needlessly.

"I, too, have felt the pressure. His goons harass business owners completely unfettered. I was even told to watch my back at my open defiance of them." Thomas finished his bourbon and quickly poured another.

Peter exchanged a worried look with James, "Well, let us hope those threats are idle, shall we?"

_____________

He had developed a bit of a fascination with her hair, admittedly. Most of the day it was pinned up, the curls contained by glass and bone combs, twisted and high. But when they were alone, when they retreated to the sanctuary of their room, she let it down; bountiful in all its burnt amber glory.

Her nightly ritual included brushing it at length until she seemed to grow tired of the endeavor, finally resting the brush neatly on her vanity, often with a weary sigh. Some nights she would braid it loosely, knotting the end in a sage ribbon to keep the tangles away. Other nights she seemed more daring, more reckless, and she left it unbound and he savored the feel of it between his fingers when she was beneath him.

He moved up behind where she sat in front of the ornate mirror of the vanity; the candlelight making her hair glow incandescently.

"May I?" He gestured at the brush and she paused her motions, studying him in the reflection before handing it to him.

"Do you know how to brush a woman's hair?" she queried as she betrayed the slightest of smiles.

"Well, I've no experience in the matter, but I have brushed a horse's tail on numerous occasions and I can't imagine it much different."

She tilted her head with a small quirk of her eyebrow, "That charm, James. Did you purchase it at discount?"

He smiled mirthful as his hand slipped beneath her hair, the backs of his fingers brushing the fine hairs of her neck, and he felt her shiver in the warm room. He pulled the brush slowly through her curls, working any tangles gently as she continued.

"I learned quite a bit today."

"Mmm? About what?"

"I sought out Eleanore to get her opinion on what I might ask Julienne. I imagined she would want to be included in the hiring of staff, and I am still learning how to run the household." He felt her eyes watching his reflection. "We shared a delightful tea where she not only met the topic at hand but also divulged quite a few stories about you growing up."

"I can only begin to imagine what yarns she told," he smirked carelessly as he focused on his task.

"Oh, they were quite interesting indeed," the small laughter she held spilled into her words. "One was how you loved to race your pony --Leopold," he spoke the name simultaneously with her, "Yes, Leopold, which I thought was a peculiar name for a pony."

He stopped his brushing and looked at her through the mirror, "Why, what did you call your pony? And do be honest, I know you had one."

"Buttercup."

He snorted a small laugh as she gaped at him, "I don't think I'll be accepting any more criticism on that account."

"Fair, I suppose," she continued with a chuckle, " She also told me about how you and your brothers would arrange boxing matches between neighborhood children and even set up a betting ring until your father put a stop to it. It sounds like the Halpert boys were troublemakers."

"We were undoubtedly so. However, I rather think us industrious. Being I was the youngest, I was often used to charm and coerce while they ran the business side of matters."

"So that is where you finely tuned that skill?" She smiled at his reflection shyly, her lush mouth tempting him from breathing.

He gently pulled her hair to the side and bent down to inhale the skin of her neck, letting his lips drag across the surface as he spoke low, "Do you think I coerce you?" His eyes held hers in the mirror, "I find you to be an active and willing participant."

It was a probing and slightly dangerous question he posed. If she were to be a respectable married lady admitting she might actually enjoy the activities of the marriage bed, it should surely scandalize him. He hoped, however, that she knew by now how little regard he held the standards that society had set for them. If the instruction he had received as a young man would be believed, it only allowed for twelve acts a year and only to create a child; beyond that was reserved for a mistress and should never be expected of a wife. By his estimations, they had surpassed that number in their first week. When she only blushed and looked down into her lap, he set the brush down, abandoning one task for another; determined in reassuring her that nothing pleased him more than her enjoyment of it.

His hand pushed back her robe, slipping the other down beneath her thin cotton shift to her breast; his mouth seizing his favorite place behind her ear.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she whispered, "You haven't nearly finished. I must brush it one hundred times a night."

He looked up at her in the mirror, her wanton, breathless perfection staring back at him in the yellow candlelight, "I promise you, I will redouble my efforts tomorrow evening to make up for it."

She raised a single brow at his double entendre and he grabbed her hand, walking backward as he led her to their bed with a wolfish grin.

"It seems a somewhat pointless exercise when it is likely to gain several more... entanglements."


	10. To Meet is the Beginning of Parting

In the weeks since they had been back in Philadelphia, the seasons had changed with a cadence that was familiar and comforting. The last warm afternoons of summer had given way to the brisk breezes of fall, the leaves changing in time with the temperature as the trees pulled inward in preparation of winter. The city itself transformed slowly and incrementally, making ready against the onslaught of cold and snow and wind. There was also the promise of the upcoming holiday season that snuck in with the cool draft around the doors and windows and settled itself in the hopeful energy of everyone it touched.  
  
"Pam, have you seen my gloves? I can't seem to find them and the last time I laid eyes upon them was at my writing desk here. Perhaps Eleanore knows..." he mumbled to himself, distractedly.  
  
He was already desperately late for the beginnings of his day but a series of events that morning seemed determined to keep him from the office. The blacksmith required an opinion on the thrush that had plagued Sergeant since Virginia. The groundskeeper asked him to seek permission to remove a tree that stretched between his property and the adjacent one. Eleanore needed him to use his height to tighten the ring on the flue pipe of the cookstove. All of which could have been handled by someone else but he was master of his house, lord of his domain and all that.  
  
He heard her soft chuckle from the other room as he rifled around in the drawer.  
  
"Are you so forgetful in your old age, husband?"  
  
It had been only an hour since he had seen her last but he needed one more moment of her before he went back downstairs and presumably on to work at last. He strode into the other room to find her in her corset and petticoat with her hair already pinned up for the day.  
  
"I would have remembered but someone tends to distract me with her feminine wiles in this room," he pulled her face towards his in an attempt to silence her teasing, his mouth drinking her in, before lowering his voice, and trailing a single finger softly over the swell of her breasts pushed up deliciously by the stiff material, "I also wouldn't think my age be in question on that account either."  
  
"Indeed it is not," she murmured into his lips before glancing over to the other side of the room where Julienne waited patiently holding her dress.  
  
He followed her eyes, jumping back slightly at the realization that they weren't alone. "My apologies. Please excuse my ...our... " any lame explanation he had for being there, accosting his wife while she dressed seemed weak. "I'm still getting used to her having a maid. I'm sorry," he finished quietly.  
  
She took a step forward hesitantly, the yards of fabric in her arms almost dwarfing her small frame, "Please do not trouble yourself, Monsieur. If it is not a bother to my mistress, it is not a bother to me," her voice was small but strong.  
  
He turned back to Pam, taking her hand and brushing his lips against it in a much more suitable expression of affection in mixed company, "I'll be back at supper."  
  
Julienne bowed slightly as he retreated safely back into the more masculine half of the bedchambers but he couldn't help himself overhearing their exchanges while he returned half-heartedly to his search.  
  
"I'm sorry if that was uncomfortable, we are still growing accustomed to married life, I suppose," he heard Pam apologize again.  
  
"Oh please do not, Madame. You are very fortunate to have a husband so clearly smitten with you," her tone and expression far more relaxed with just the two of them, he noticed, and her accent more pronounced, "I will never understand this American and English foolishness when it comes to love. You are both young and handsome, why should you not enjoy each other? Heaven forbid."  
  
He heard her say something else but it was now low enough that he couldn't make out the words. Although based on the feminine giggles that followed, perhaps it was best that he didn't.  
  
As he made his way downstairs, he recognized the front door open and a quiet exchange of voices before he rounded the turn just in time to see the maid pushing the door shut against the winter wind and turn in his direction.  
  
"Sir, your brother's driver left this for you."  
  
He opened the folded paper and Peter's distinct penmanship greeted him. _Visit Thomas. He is not well and needs to talk to someone._  
  
He glanced up at the maid waiting patiently, "Will you tell the driver to bring the carriage around? I am apparently not going to the office anytime soon."  
  
_____________________  
  
  
"Brother. What brings you calling at this unusual hour in the middle of the day?"  
  
Thomas sat slumped in the chair near the fireplace of the study, his shirt undone and the buttons clearly not paired with the correct hole as there was a protruding loop of fabric halfway down his torso. He didn't bother to rise in his greeting, instead, he ran his finger along the moistened edge of the glass he held. His eyes were glazed over and unseeing and James sighed disappointingly at the sight before him.  
  
The message had been correct, he was indeed not well and completely inebriated before lunch had even been served.  
  
"Do you not have pressing issues at the shipyard today? It seems an odd time to have a drink." He began cautiously. His older brother had always been prideful, perhaps as a result of being the firstborn, more likely, however, as a result of having the expectations of the entire family resting invisibly on his shoulders.  
  
"It's never too early for a drink, James." He replied with a small hint of rebuke, finishing off what was left defiantly.  
  
"Where are Marcie and Vanessa?" He had not seen Marcie in weeks, since the dinner at his mother's house and while that wouldn't normally be something unusual, he suspected it was for other reasons.  
  
"I sent them away. Her mother lives in Washington," he replied offering no further explanation.  
  
"Perhaps you should join her there. Get away from the stresses of Philadelphia for a while."  
  
He looked at James harshly, and he knew he caught on to what he was implying, "I am not like you, little brother. I cannot abandon the family. I will stay until this whole thing can be sorted, until the election at the very least."  
  
Indignation swelled in his chest, and while his rational mind knew it was a loose tongue because of the liquor, he also knew that it tended to let the truth come forth as well.  
  
"I have not abandoned the family. I am here, supporting father in whatever way I can with the paper."  
  
"Your _energies_ have been focused elsewhere and it is clear that this is less of a concern for you, living all happily over there with your adoring females," James started to interject but he pushed through, continuing, "They are pushing me out, James. I have lost nearly every shipping contract in recent months. They have threatened me on numerous occasions because I won't sell, they have followed me, and have even alluded to coming here, to my home."  
  
"Wait, who is _they_?"  
  
"Charles Moore. Not him directly, of course. He is separated from such base actions by several degrees," he waved his hand flippantly as he rose unsteadily and leaned against the mantle. "He wants father's seat and he wants me out entirely from the shipping business. It all started to unravel months ago while you were down traipsing around in North Carolina." His words dripped bitterly from his lips.  
  
His family losing the upper hand of the situation needed somewhere to place blame and it appeared that the place they had chosen was him, despite the flawed logic of it all.  
  
"Perhaps, you could buy more contracts or just cut your losses and leave the business entirely? There is no shame in pursuing other endeavors, especially if they have threatened you and your family."  
  
"You would like to see that wouldn't you?" his words slurring together slightly, "You have always undermined me, James, even as boys. You have always thought yourself better than I."  
  
James rubbed his forehead tiredly, a headache beginning to form. "What are you talking about, Thomas?" he asked exasperatedly. "You know that's not true."  
  
"Is it not? You have always been everyone's favorite. You even were the one father chose to take the Paper and now you have the perfect life, coming in my house and telling me to tuck tail and scamper off in defeat."  
  
There was profound anger and pain in his eyes that James had never seen before in all his years. He had always suspected some jealousy, but nothing beyond the usual competitiveness between male siblings, and while he was far closer with Peter, this deep-seated animosity came as a startling surprise.  
  
"Just go," he finally spoke again at James's stunned silence, forgoing the formality of pouring more whisky in a glass and just pulling a long swallow directly from the bottle. "Go back to your successful newspaper and your southern whore."  
  
James clinched his jaw hard, pressing down the anger that threatened. He would allow for daggers to be thrown at him, but she was off-limits.  
  
"Don't speak of her like that. You direct your anger at me, that's fine, but not her. She has nothing to do with any of this."  
  
"She leads you around by the cock, anyone with eyes can see that," he murmured as he flopped rather ungracefully into the chair again. "You embarrass the family, James."  
  
He knew better than to respond, that this insult was just designed to hurt him, to bring into question his manhood and make Thomas feel better about himself as every aspect of his life was crumbling around him. Knowing this didn't dampen the sting of his brother despising him so thoroughly, however, and he turned to leave, realizing any conversation past this point was fruitless.  
  
He stopped with his hand on the large iron handle of the front door, pausing briefly to consider the servant standing there listening, "I am not the one embarrassing the family, Thomas."  
  
  
The winter wind had died down considerably, so he opted to walk, sending the driver back to the house. It was only twelve or so blocks from Thomas's home to Market Street and he needed the time to think, the loose ends of what he had learned and what he knew he must do slowly winding themselves into a plan.  
  
The city was always quieter when it snowed. The flakes drifted lazily to the ground and the blanket of white seemed to insulate everything from the usual noise, a convenient cover over the stains of humanity's sins, making everything appear clean. The peace, whether real or imagined, allowed his thoughts to be heard more clearly over the din of his responsibilities and guilt and obligations.  
  
Oscar looked at him disparagingly as he appeared, extraordinarily late and in the doorway of the office with a layer of snow on the shoulders of his fine overcoat, and added a disgusted wrinkle of his nose as he shook the excess off it near the coat rack.  
  
"Do you not have a driver?" Mr. Schrute asked briskly from his desk in the corner. "It has been snowing for nearly two days, walking would not be the most efficient means of transportation."  
  
James ignored him and worked his way past the other desks to his office at the opposite end, with only a quick nod acknowledging Oscar as he shut the door behind him.  
  
The words flowed from his pen violently, cursing the time it took to dip it back into the inkwell. He did not consider himself accomplished in elocution in any sense but he could articulate his thoughts in written form fairly well, and on rare occasions, those thoughts transformed themselves eloquently as they spilled from his mind to his hand.  
  
In an extirpation of all the anger and frustration of recent weeks, he held up the resulting opinion for examination, the ink drying carefully into the fibers of the thin paper. Larissa's editorial laid just beyond the space where he had been writing, a few scribbles and notes from Oscar's edit in the margins.  
  
"Oscar!" He called loudly from behind the mountain range of books and papers that lined the front edge of his desk, and as the chief editor whisked the door open in prompt reply, James handed him the two papers.  
  
"Print them. Print them both."  
  
  
__________________  
  
  
He had once had opium. It was often given to the officers in the battlefield hospitals to relive to pain or dull the senses as one died. The night he was given a large dose, he suspected that the young surgeon that had examined him deemed him in his last hours, mercifully allowing him to slip into oblivion peacefully. He didn't die that night, of course, or the dozens of nights after it.  
  
This felt the same. Truth had no meaning. Time ceased to exist. Everything felt pleasant and lovely as the tip of his nose tingled and he heard colors and tasted sounds.  
  
A man stood in front of him and as he focused on the flapping of his overcoat, a scene appeared around him like a mist. It was the bank of the Delaware in springtime and as the man turned he realized it was his uncle. His father's brother had been a boyhood hero of his except his mind began revolting against what his eyes were seeing.  
  
He had buried his uncle years ago. He had seen him die and had watched the coffin go into the ground. This had to be a dream, he concluded, but the breeze fanned his cheek and the grass beneath his feet crunched as he walked closer, calling his logical mind a liar.  
  
"You have grown so, my nephew."  
  
He was talking now. The dead man was talking and all he could do was stand there dumbly and listen.  
  
"Remember when we would come to this park, you and I, and watch the boats go by?"  
  
He tested his voice and, "I remember," came out strangled and muted.  
  
His dead uncle smiled amicably and looked out across the gently lapping current of the river.  
  
"You should have died in that hospital, James."  
  
"What?" The pleasantness of the reunion seemed to evaporate from around him.  
  
"All of those lives you took. All those men you let down. They trusted you, counted on you."  
  
Everyone else, the river, the breeze, seemed to slip into the murky background and all that was left was his uncle, the silk his top hat standing out against the gray. He turned to look at him again, to try and understand what he was saying except this time his eyes were so depthless and black they seemed to see right through him.  
  
"You are going to lose everything if you are not careful, James," his voice a calm monotone now, and the words seemed to drift through him like a ghost. "You will make her pregnant and lose everything. Philadelphia is not safe for anyone."  
  
His mind scrambled for purchase as the feeling in the pit of his stomach grew and less and less of it made sense, "What do you mean lose everything? What is going to happen to Pam?"  
  
He turned away and James reached out to grab his arm, to demand an explanation. His body was warped and slow now, like walking through mud and his hand grasped at nothingness.  
  
He woke in the center of his own bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, the familiar pattern of the heavy drapes that hung from the four posts staring blankly back at him.  
  
Reaching for her was instinctive, but she wasn't there, and even though the scent of their bodies together lingered, only cooled sheets filled his grip. The high moon lit the room well and he grappled for his pants, fumbling towards the bedroom door.  
  
His uncle's words played over in his mind as he went from room to room looking for her but finding the same nothingness that had surrounded him before.  
  
He pushed the swinging door to the kitchen in escalating panic, and exhaled heavily at the sight of her standing in front of the cookstove in her nightdress, her long hair cascading down her back looking sable in the dim light of one lantern.  
  
She turned around, startled, "Heavens, James, you scared me."  
  
He slumped into the nearest chair as the adrenaline left him suddenly exhausted. She turned from her task again, this time noticing his distress.  
  
"What's wrong? I didn't wake you did I?"  
  
We met her concerned expression with his and smiled comfortingly, "No, love, I just had a bad dream. Although it was less like a nightmare and more like a ..." he shook his head free of the haunting memory of the coldness of his uncle's eyes. "I woke and it worried me when you were not there," he furrowed his brow in question, "What are you doing up at this hour?"  
  
"I couldn't sleep. I thought I might warm some cows milk," she motioned towards the small cast iron saucepan and the cloudy white liquid. The house was still and there were several hours remaining before its walls trembled once again with activity.  
  
She moved it over to the unheated part of the stove surface to cool and bypassed the available chair in favor of his lap, seemingly knowing exactly what he needed, and he pulled her against him seeking her warmth. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he sighed contented, the mingled scents of milk and the remains if her perfume and what was undeniably her, surrounded him and his soul rested.  
  
After several minutes his heartbeat slowed and matched in time to hers and he felt her lashes brush against his skin as she blinked. "You are not with child are you?" His quiet words filled the stillness nervously.  
  
She pulled back and looked at him curiously as if he had asked her she was going to join the circus, "Not that I'm aware," she responded slowly, "Why?"  
  
He only shook his head and pulled her back close to him and felt her began to stroke his hair softly with the tips of her fingers, "Although, I'm not exactly sure what to look for other than my courses stopping. Julienne says that is one of the first things."  
  
She pulled back again and looked at him."I'm sorry I haven't given you a child yet. I know that is probably very important to you." Her voice was small and sad and he scrambled to reassure her. Of their many countless conversations, children had only ever come up in the abstract, the assumption that they would one day exist but the when of them had never quite been discussed.  
  
"Please do not ever apologize for such a thing. It will happen when it is supposed to, and not a moment sooner." He relaxed into her again. 

"Wait, you discuss things like this with Julienne?"  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
"Of course," he echoed her, bemused.  
  
"She is a wealth of information. She is much more worldly and experienced than I and the French are not shy about any of the more unmentionable things about relations between a husband and wife."  
  
She dropped one of her hands from around his shoulder and smoothed her fingers across the muscles of his stomach, creating a building heat in him as she danced teasingly close to the top of his partially undone pants.  
  
"Do you want children?" She asked suddenly and he pulled his eyes reluctantly from where they had been chasing the words falling from her mouth with rapt, sudden interest.  
  
"As many as you will give me," he replied honestly. The gnawing worry of his dream getting slowly drowned out by the basic and louder noise of his response to her; fear being replaced incrementally by the ancient pull of the empty place inside her body that craved his.  
  
"Perhaps we should go see what we can do about that," she stood in front of him, making him long for the weight of her now that it was gone.  
  
"What about your milk?" He gestured behind him as she pulled on his arm, leading him through the swinging door.  
  
"Leave it."  
  
  
__________________  
  
  
  
James had realized early on in his adulthood that he was a bit of a homebody. He imagined it was derived from a youth full of forced dinner parties, balls, theater performances and operas, but he would much rather be at home and while his circle of acquaintances was quite large, the people he preferred to spend any length of time with had narrowed down to one. Now that he was in charge of the decisions in his life, somewhat, in any case, that was often the choice he made; dinner at home with her. He came to understand rather intuitively that Pam felt differently about matters. She enjoyed seeing others and while he was often at work during the day, around people, she was not. He knew she was lonely, missing not only her family but female companionship. The presence of Julienne had helped and she had become closer to Larrisa but he could not deny her when she asked to go out to dinner or the theater.  
  
Tonight, he had somehow been convinced to join most of the rest of his family at opening night of _Il Trovatore_ , one of his least favorite social endeavors, the opera. Julienne wordlessly pinned up her curls as she sat at the dressing table, pearl crested combs carefully placed amongst the amber waves.  
  
"It is an opera, oui?" Julienne enquired and Pam nodded. "There is something very romantic about an opera, madame. The costumes and the beautifully painted backgrounds," she said wistfully.  
  
The pale yellow dress fit her flawlessly with silk leaves in shades of brown and gold embroidered on the bodice and hem. It was a masterpiece out of the mind of Grégoire and his wife was a perfect canvas for his muse. He would be concerned at the attention the man paid her but he suspected that Grégoire's desires did not lie with the fairer sex anyway.  
  
He tugged at his cufflink, securely fastening the gold piece to the stiff, starched fabric. "I can't convince you to feign illness and stay at home with me, can I? Surely we can come up with some malaise that would prevent us both from going out into the cold."  
  
"James, you spent entirely too much money on this dress to keep it hidden away."  
  
Julienne motioned that she was complete with her task and she stood to face him, the expensive halcyon silk swirling around as she turned.  
  
"Worth every penny," he murmured as his eyes traveled slowly over her and she self-consciously blushed and played with the delicate pearl necklace draped across her chest under his open admiration. He leaned down to kiss her lightly, despite Julienne as an audience, and she tasted like honey and warmth.  
  
"You should be proud to have such a lovely lady on your arm tonight, monsieur," Julienne added as she bent down to straighten the edge of Pam's skirt as it brushed against the polished wooden planks of the floor.  
  
"Oh I am, undoubtedly, I am just not all that interested in sharing her."  
  
  
_______________  
  
  
The Philadelphia Academy of Music was a relatively newer building, James having recalled visiting it only a handful of times before leaving for the war but he remembered its distinctive rounded arched windows along the facade. That particular evening found them lit up, glowing incandescent over the snowy street where several rows of black hansom cabs were both emptied and filled in a flurry of activity. When they stepped into the open horseshoe of the auditorium with its enormous central chandelier and murals, he heard Pam gasp next to him and clutch his arm tighter.  
  
The gilded private box near the stage that was reserved indefinitely for the Halperts after a rather large donation by his father several years prior, afforded them privacy from the audience below. Pam leaned forward carefully, her gloved hands gripping the carved mahogany tightly, to look at the stage beneath them before sitting back and smiling excitedly in his direction.  
  
"Mother told me that the two of you were coming tonight." Peter slipped into the plush red velvet seat next to him.  
  
"How is Cindy faring? Is it more agreeable than last time?"  
  
Cindy in her 'condition' would not be seen outside of her home now until after the baby came and her size once again met the approval of society. Babies were a blessing but the act of creating them was distasteful and a sin, so by extension seeing a pregnant woman only reminded polite society of that. Even working-class women hid their pregnancies as much as possible. Wealthy women just hid away only to reappear miraculously with a baby several months later.  
  
"She appears to be although there are many weeks still," Peter answered distractedly, his voice tight with worry.  
  
"I called on Thomas yesterday as you requested. He is troubled," James looked out over the raucous noise of the settling crowd below. "and angry, and bitter. Like father, he seemed to blame this entire predicament on me, rather unfairly, I might add. He said they have threatened him again and are following him? Did you know he sent Marcie and Vanessa to Washington? That is probably wise given his current state and the dangers."  
  
Pete nodded in agreement and looked idly down at his hands in pensive thought, "I noticed your rather daring opinions on page three today. Do you mean to stir up more of a hornet's nest?"  
  
"I intend to bring some light on what is going on down there. Perhaps if there is some unwanted attention, they will back off? The other one was your sister."  
  
"My sister?" He asked slightly bemused, "And they might back off or they might redirect their anger at you instead."  
  
"Let them. I'm in a much better position than Thomas is, and I will print every last one of their damn names if they make themselves known." He cast a glance in the direction of their mother, who was sitting primly at the front of the box, hoping she hadn't heard his crass language in mixed company.  
  
Peter turned to him, lowering his voice and motioning to the full skirt on the other side of him, "You have more than yourself to think of now, James, remember that."  
  
James shifted in his seat, slightly away from her with his shoulder, with a hushed hiss, "They wouldn't dare. What kind of goon goes after a woman instead of the one he has a grievance with?"  
  
"The kind that bludgeons people nearly to death for not selling their property. Mr. Wilkes may never walk again, so as I hear. They won't kill someone's family, I suspect, but they will bother her...perhaps worse. Just be careful, James."  
  
Larissa leaned forward casually from the other side of Pam, "There are the Moores, timely as ever."  
  
Across the grand opera house, in the opposite private box, Katy emerged from the heavy red curtains lining the back entrance, followed by her sister and her sister's husband and Mr. and Mrs. Moore, each one finding their seats without so much as a glance in the direction of the Halperts. Even though there were hundreds of people below and a great expanse between them, their presence brought an unpleasant tension over his family around him and guilt pulled at his consciousness once again.  
  
He felt Pam tense next to him, his body so attuned to hers now, and he reached for her hand, bringing her gloved fingers to his lips as the orchestra began its cacophony of sounds in preparation of the performance. The slight nod of her head as she held his gaze and the delicate smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth reminded him of the result of his rebellion and that the cost was well worth it.  
  
  
_______________  
  
  
Her small hand slipped into his bare one, his gloves still elusive, as he helped her down from the metal step of the carriage, her entire weight falling into him as she lost her footing slightly on the icy ground beneath them.  
  
She smiled up at him from beneath the fur of her hood, "I think the weather is telling us it is time to be inside for the evening."  
  
"Indeed. I am looking forward to the warmth of the fire and my bed."  
  
His casual overture earned him a bemused smirk as she gathered her skirts to navigate the short distance between the carriage and the door of their home.  
  
He glanced up through to open wrought iron of their front gate to see the figures of two people standing under the lit street lamp. As his eyes focused, he could tell it was two men, their unfamiliar faces barely illuminated despite being nearly directly in front of the yellow glow of the flickering lamp. They watched, unabashedly, as he placed his hand on the small of her back and led her inside.  
  
"That was lovely. So much grander than the ones in Richmond and Savannah. I probably sound simple to you, rambling on like this. Your mother seemed to enjoy herself."  
  
Despite the late hour, she still flowed with the energy of the performance, managing to rid herself of her shoes despite the impossible volume of her skirts.  
  
"Will you help me?" She turned in front of him, presenting the buttons of her silk dress and the laces of her corset bound incredibly tight around her body underneath, and he dutifully complied.  
  
"Where is Julienne? Not that I'm complaining, but doesn't helping you undress fall under her duties?"  
  
"I gave her the rest of the evening off," she exhaled as they loosened, one by one. "She was not well earlier today. She barely made it to the privy, poor thing."  
  
"Should we send for a doctor?"  
  
"I asked her and she vehemently claimed it was some bad porridge. I told Eleanore to check the dried goods, though I can't imagine that is the source."  
  
The stiff fabric fell away and he reached up to stroke her hip beneath her shift, placing his lips to her hair still bound and constrained; not in any way to relay a desire to seduce her, merely enjoying the privilege of doing so.  
  
"Don't go to any meetings with Larissa or to Grégoire's without me for a while."  
  
His statement was out of the blue, starting in the middle of a conversation she had not been included in, her having not been inside the constant turning over of events that had plagued his mind since the previous revelations from both his brothers.  
  
She turned to face him, "Why?"  
  
"Just indulge me, please?" He pleaded with her, hoping he would see in his eyes the seriousness of his request as he kissed her forehead, feeling the smooth warm skin there beneath his lips.  
  
"I'm going to have someone from my father's house come and stay here during the day while I am gone to the office. I trust him and he will do until I can find something more permanent. Markus, perhaps he can come stay here..." his stream of consciousness now spoken aloud as his mind constructed a strategy.  
  
"What is going on? Did something happen?"  
  
He looked at her concerned face and realized she had been listening to his not-so-private thoughts as they spilled out of him.  
  
"It's nothing, just some precautions."  
  
"No, don't you dare. Don't treat me like some flower with delicate sensibilities, James."  
  
Her tone startled him and despite the storm swirling in his mind, he smiled at her temper; always enjoying the fiery side of her that made itself known on occasion.  
  
"There were men that followed us home tonight," he began as he pulled at his tie to loosen it. "I printed a couple of controversial editorials." He finished by way of explanation, hoping it would satisfy her.  
  
She looked needlessly out the window, pulling the lace curtain aside to see the sliver of the street visible from that direction, "Since when do editorials warrant such a reaction?"  
  
He should have known it would not.  
  
"When they call out some highly illegal dealings at the shipyards, and giving the vote to women and former slaves. Neither topic wins favor in this city. Thomas has similar concerns so we are all being cautious."  
  
He looked back to her as she sat on the chest at the foot of their bed, half undressed, the questions and concerns written plainly on her face.  
  
"It's probably nothing," he attempted to reassure her. "They are just trying to intimidate me. They weren't hiding tonight, they wanted me to see them. I'm just not willing to risk your safety so please humor me with these likely exaggerated responses."  
  
"Why during the day? If they are trying to intimidate you as you say, why would they not come to the paper?"  
  
"Because they likely know that all they would need to hurt me, is hurt you."


End file.
